Farewell, Remorse
by Aya Renee
Summary: Syn spent four years living on Earth in exile, thinking she would never see her beloved Asgard again, nor the mischievous prince who betrayed her trust. But apparently getting tangled up in Loki's plans is a hard habit to break. Part 1 of 2: Part 2 continues in "A Game of Souls."
1. Chapter 1

_"So farewell Hope, and with Hope, farewell Fear. Farewell Remorse: all Good to me is lost; Evil be thou my Good."_

_~John Milton, Paradise Lost  
_

___Disclaimer: Nothing from Thor, Avengers or Marvel is mine._

* * *

Loki of the silver tongue, Prince of Lies, God of Mischief, had tumbled from grace long ago. But his tumble from the Bifrost looked to be much more painful.

He might have felt a flicker of regret, but the seeds of jealousy had long ago planted their roots deep in his soul, twisting and seething. He might have taken a moment to reflect on his current dilemma, but the deep and icy cold gulf between worlds had no effect on him, although the air rushing madly by did give him a moment's pause.

He couldn't help but note, given his current situation, its distinct lack of anything to grab onto.

He sighed, for the moment unconcerned. He would think of something. He always did.

* * *

Spending time in Midgard had not been a pleasant experience. But Loki had summoned his will, the one part of him that no one could diminish or take away, and he had survived. Stealing what he needed, charming what he wanted, he gathered his strength, cultivated his awareness of this meager, hungry world and how to navigate what could be called, if he were feeling charitable, their civilization.

Despite his initial distaste for the mortal realm, there were a_ few_ benefits. He found, to his surprise, that he was rather fond of one Midgardian drink, in particular. He had never been much of a fan of ale on Asgard, especially the chest thumping and tales of bravado that often followed in its wake and left a distinctly bad taste in his mouth. But milkshakes _almost_ left him impressed with Midgardian creativity. They did not leave a bad taste in his mouth. Except for once. He should _never_ have tried the bacon milkshake.

_Humans_.

They found a way to ruin everything. When he ruled Midgard, such an atrocity would not be allowed to continue.

_When he ruled Midgard_.

It was a phrase that had entered his mind quite frequently, and it preceded other phrases that usually had something to do with a lot of other people having to look up to see him.

Way up.

And the most brilliant thing about his new plan was that Midgard had absolutely _no idea_ it was now the enemy. And, for someone who relied on trickery and deceit, that was the best kind of enemy to have. His incessant pride and appetite for power grew with each passing day.

That is, right up until the day he saw her haunting face, staring back at him from a newspaper. It was a face he knew quite well, likely because he had tried so hard to forget it. It wouldn't be described as beautiful in any traditional sense of the word, if beauty was considered in terms of softness and demure femininity. Her nose was too patrician, her mouth was too wide, a too vivid contrast against the height of her cheekbones and the hard, firm line of her jaw tapering to that damn stubborn chin.

But her eyes were a vivid, magnificent distraction from the strong features that surrounded them, large and compelling. The black and white didn't do her justice, but he knew their color was amber, knew how they could glitter like molten gold, a perfect match to the burnished copper of her hair. She was warmth and heat, a hidden, simmering fire.

But for him, she had reserved quite a bit of cold, frosty disdain.

_Syn. _

It was _her_, he would recognize her anywhere, could recognize the feeling she gave him still, the odd, confusing, sickening knot of hatred and longing she left curling in the pit of his belly.

Syn, Guardian of Thresholds. Defender of Law. Mistress of Refusal.

But she went by those names no longer, he thought with an ungracious smirk, as it was no longer her duty to defend the weak and protect the gates. She was called something else throughout Asgard now. She had tumbled from grace, much as he had, exiled by the force of her own law, renounced by those she had previously protected. She had been stripped of her power and sent in shameful banishment to Midgard. The punishment of exile was extreme, but it matched her crime.

_Syn the Betrayer. _

That is what they called her now. He snorted to himself as he remembered their hushed, malicious whispers. How easily they could turn from cherished friend to vicious enemy, without mercy in their retribution, despite their ignorance to the real truth.

They should have been calling her Syn the Betrayed.

He was the only other one, besides the woman in question, who knew the whole truth. It would come as a great surprise to his people, to find out she was innocent of wrong-doing. To find out they had condemned her and tormented her, this woman who had given all of herself, who had fought so hard for their justice and their ridiculous traditions.

But it would never surprise them to find out _how_ he knew this particular, delicate piece of information.

Because Loki, Crosser of Thresholds, Breaker of Law, guilty of the very crimes for which she was now paying the ultimate price, was the one who had set her up to take his fall.

* * *

Sinclair Donovan ran a hand through her tousled curls, sitting down with a ragged sigh, and tried to remember. Tossing her sensible pumps to the side with a flick of her ankle, she folded her long legs up under her, finding a comfortable position in the plush leather seat. It was among the first things she unpacked, her desk and this damn chair.

She leaned back against the opulent, dark mahogany leather. It was rich and smoothly luxurious against her skin. It was probably the most expensive thing in her office, a vivid and startling reminder of just how far she'd come. She could afford it now, but the same certainly couldn't have been said a few years ago.

She surveyed the boxes stacked haphazardly around her new corner office with an almost trepid grin. There was a lot of work to do, but at least it was the satisfying kind. She had finally made it. She had clawed her way up from nothing. From less than nothing.

She felt a heady sting of homesickness at what had been sacrificed, at everything that had been lost for her to arrive at this stage in her life. A wave of despair and heartache threatened her usual calm, and she quickly and viciously pushed it to the back of her mind. There was no going back now.

She could never go home again.

But she had made a new home for herself here. Or, at the very least, she had made a name for herself. A lucky break had given her a renewed purpose, the case of a lifetime, a case that allowed her the personally satisfying opportunity to defend a cop who had been framed for a crime he did not commit.

It was a bitter irony, the fact that she could save someone else from such a tragedy, but not herself. Yet she had gained a certain fame as a capable attorney in the aftermath of the high-profile case, her stalwart resolve and eventual success garnering national media attention.

Her own wavering attention finally flickered to the box partially hidden under her desk, as she remembered what she had been looking for. Leaning down, she dug around the packaging until she found the shiny brass nameplate, and she gingerly placed it at the front of her desk, as if marking her newfound territory.

* * *

_A/N: Syn is not from the comic or movie worlds of Asgard, but my presentation of her is inspired by a goddess of the same name, attested to in ancient texts as one of the sixteen principal gods of the Norse pantheon. Her name means "refusal" in Old Norse, and she was a goddess associated with vigilance, the guarding of doors (especially Frigga's palace) and general defense, but also defense in terms of legal matters (especially against those wrongfully accused)._


	2. Chapter 2

"Sinclair, there's a man here to see you."

And with those simple words, her carefully crafted world, the world she had spent years pulling together from the fragments of her shattered self, fell apart.

Again.

Her world fell apart, _again._

And really, shouldn't once have been enough?

* * *

Her morning had started out quite normal. Which, as she had discovered, was quite the relative thing.

There was a time when a normal morning routine for her had involved a lot more embossed leather and hammered metal and grunting and cursing her greaves into place. And carrying a beautiful, lovingly crafted stave, engraved with the Sol sigil, the hallmark of her family.

Sinclair sighed with resignation. Now, normal was more soft blouses and pencil skirts and pantyhose and cursing and another pair of pantyhose.

Okay, _some_ things never changed.

Although if she could have been said to wield anything she supposed one could count the lint roller; her most fearsome morning predator a lazy ginger tabby inclined to become overly friendly on the days she decided to wear black.

But today was a day for beige and chocolate brown, and Nidhogg seemed to have no interest in gnawing on her toes this morning. At the moment he looked nothing like the fearsome dragon serpent for whom he was named. In fact, he looked quite bored as he slowly blinked his morning greeting with crooked golden eyes. She smiled at his broad yawn, and gave his scruffy head a loving scratch before grabbing her keys and heading out the door.

* * *

She arrived at her office precisely on time, as usual, and was greeted by her assistant Elizabeth. The short blond had coffee in one hand, an armful of files in the other, and her usual cheery demeanor.

"Morning, Sin."

Sinclair rolled her eyes at the reminder of the little nickname the press had taken to calling her. It had such a different meaning here than her real name, but she still liked the sound of it. She grabbed the proffered coffee with a smile of gratitude and headed to her personal office, Liz following behind, flicking her armful of files onto her desk with practiced flair.

"Speaking of media annoyances, the _Times _called again. They really want that interview."

Sinclair groaned into her coffee mug as Liz continued.

"Also, got a call from the DA's office. Oh, have you made a decision about the Davis case?"

She nodded. "We'll take it."

Liz met her gaze with a rather serious expression, for once. "We're going to need help for that one. Things aren't like they used to be."

That was an understatement. "Set up some interviews."

Liz only smiled. "I've got one for you this afternoon. The dossier's on your desk."

Sinclair lifted a questioning brow. "You knew I'd take the case?"

"I know _you_. You can never resist a stray." Liz threw the comment over her shoulder with another saucy smile as she exited to return to her own desk and pile of paperwork.

Sinclair was happy to ignore the files for a moment longer, and enjoy one morning tradition that she found particularly satisfying. If she were to make a list of things she preferred about living in Midgard, coffee would be somewhere near the top. Caught up in her brief reverie, she was startled when Liz swept in her office so soon after leaving, looking almost breathless.

"Sinclair, there's a man here to see you."

It might have been a potential client, her new-found firm had certainly garnered enough interest after her recent rush of success, although she usually preferred they make an appointment.

Liz seemed to anticipate her protest. "I tried to get his information and make an appointment, but he was quite insistent. He demanded…well no, he didn't really _demand_, he was very polite, you see, just insistent, and he…"

She was cut off from finishing as the man in question swept past her and entered her office, uninvited.

And when she saw him, she almost dropped the cup that was, for the moment, left hovering in the air at her chin, an inch from her lips.

Of course _he_ wouldn't wait for permission to enter.

* * *

He had forgotten how tall she was.

She had been tall even for an Asgardian, quite intimidating in her full regalia, but as she stood up and emerged from behind her desk, wearing these heels that seemed so popular here, she was almost a match for his own imposing height. He felt drawn unwillingly into the distant past at the sight of her, feeling a rare moment of hesitation, and it angered him.

He had assumed she would look a bit more humble. Cowed, perhaps. _Human_.

But besides her outward clothing she seemed much the same as he remembered, her shoulders squared in confidence, her stride just as jaunty and uninhibited. Except there seemed to be quite a bit more_ leg_, this time around.

Realizing that his gaze had shifted, he snapped his eyes up to her face, her very _angry _face, and gritted his teeth.

_What happened, your silver tongue turn to lead?_

The memory of Volstagg's mocking words trickled the heat of pride down his spine. She had no power here, he reminded himself. It had all been stripped away upon her banishment. She was nothing now, nothing more than one mortal woman.

She was Syn no longer.

At the reminder of her former avowed purpose, of everything that she stood for, he felt renewed anger rise to the surface to join with pride. His father's final words continued to haunt him, from that moment he had hung on the precipice, pouring out his heart and his ambition and his dreams. And he had been denied.

_No, Loki_

His eyes narrowed to glittering slits as he pushed these ridiculous memories aside. That had not been his father. And he was done being refused. And she could prove very useful, when his time for taking arrived. He had something that even the Mistress of Refusal could not refuse. He had her ticket back to Asgard.

A small part of him, most especially the bored part of him, tightened in anticipation, looking forward to the promised storm.

Turning to the shorter figure who had greeted his entrance, he spoke with measured care, his voice dripping his usual soft cadence that he found worked frightfully well with humans, no magic required. "Ms. Hughes. You have been very accommodating, and I must say, it was a pleasure to meet you. Would you mind allowing me to speak to Ms. Donovan in private?"

* * *

She had forgotten how charming he could be, when he wanted to play that game. His voice had been dripping with it, his tone smooth and silky. She could have greased her squeaky car door with a voice like that.

Liz had that dazed look of someone already under his spell. At least now, her breathless entrance made a bit of sense. At the realization that she might have looked like that, once, she couldn't hold back a snort of derision. The indelicate, unladylike sound immediately caused a shift in his attention, and he riveted his icy green eyes back on her. She had to remind herself that his charm was manipulation, sly and insidious, and she had already been duped once.

How did the little saying go? _Fool me once, shame on you_. But it was more than once, if she were honest. She'd been duped by him at almost every turn. The shame really did belong only to her. _Fool me twice, shame on me._

None of her memories could be trusted, no matter how vivid they remained, yet she couldn't stop them from brimming to the surface.

_Syn tried not to laugh at the mischievous twinkle in his eye, but a trace of humor was evident in her voice, despite her attempts to hide it._

"_Loki, you know you cannot enter the queen's archives at this time. What are you doing here?"_

"_Has it not occurred to you that I might have come just to gaze upon your beauty?"_

_He paced the length of the threshold as he spoke, but his gaze never drifted from her face._

"_It has been said among many that you are a good liar. I hope this isn't the best you can manage." She crossed her arms, lacing her words with teasing sarcasm, and leaned back against the large pillar that formed part of the colonnade sweeping in a half circle around the dais._

_They had played this game before, many times. Loki was always somewhere he shouldn't be, and often enough that meant he was somewhere she was stationed to keep anyone labeled a "shouldn't be" out._

_She tried to look bored, but she couldn't stop the rapid flutter of her fickle heart, a distinctly disturbing effect that seemed to happen a lot lately, each time suspiciously coinciding with the presence of one mischievous prince._

"_They say I am the Lord of Lies, you impertinent girl. It seems you need a reminder."_

_Before she could snap back a derisive response to his patronizing insult, before she could even take a breath, he was in front of her. She hadn't seen him move, wouldn't have been able to see him even if she had been told the trick was coming._

_He was simply there, in her space, and the damn pillar betrayed her, no longer a supportive ally but simply another enemy, preventing her immediate escape._

_She clucked at him, feigning a lightheartedness that she did not feel, desperate to not give him more advantage than what he had already taken. "Perhaps there is some other title to which you can aspire? The Overlord of Obvious Sarcasm? That has a nice ring."  
_

_He didn't even have the grace to acknowledge her insult. His response was a drugging, husky whisper, spoken in low tones, for her ears only. "You think I could not be interested in you, little guardian?"_

_He ran the pad of his finger down the curve of her cheek, before idly playing with a strand of her hair. The lock curled and twisted around his finger with ease. _

_She scowled in frustration. Was her own hair betraying her now?_

_He leaned in closer, his breath now heated and moist in her ear as he pressed his lean body against her. "More importantly, do you think I could not convince you of it, whether it be truth or not?"  
_

_She stiffened. This was new. _

_He had tried trickery before. He was so good with trickery. Sometimes she wouldn't see him at all, just hear the soft mockery of his beguiling voice. And other times, he would be more than present, more than one of him circling her, taunting her to discover his true form._

_And she had._

_He had been utterly surprised, angrily so, and he had not tried that particular trick again._

_At one point he had simply resorted to begging, and she had had a good laugh at that one. The sight of the son of Odin, Prince Loki himself, curling his beautiful mouth into a pout, his hands lifted in what would be humble acquiescence on anyone else, but on him still seemed as clear a demand as if he had given her a sharply barked order._

_But this heady seduction, this was new. And, she discovered to her shame as she felt the heat of languid desire pooling between her legs, it was effective. Dangerously so. She was suddenly not interested in playing with him as she had in the past, some vestige of her instincts warning her that she was in so much more danger than she could ever possibly know. Summoning the remnants of what was normally a very formidable will, she gathered a burst of protective energy in her palms, and shoved him away._

Sinclair steeled herself against the wave of shame and anger at the memories of how easily he had manipulated her, charmed her. Even then, she had been under the impression that it was all just a game to him, that if he really desired, he could have gone wherever he wanted. And she had been right. But suspicion hadn't mattered in the aftermath, and she had paid the price for her mistake.

It did no good to dwell on that now. She gave her hair a jaunty toss, hoping she looked more calm than she felt, and tried not to flinch as the often spoken words fell easily from her lips, even after so many years.

"Loki. What are you doing here?"


	3. Chapter 3

In the initial months following her banishment, Sinclair had wasted away countless hours imagining what it would be like to see Asgard again. To see her friends and family again. She had spent the majority of this time imagining what it would be like to see Loki again, and she hadn't ever realized before this period of her life just how _vivid_ an imagination she possessed.

Not at first, of course.

At first she had focused on her stave in some manner or other, because honestly, that was so familiar and came very easy to her mind. But the stave was soon enough relegated to the tame and the mundane, what with all the simple stabbing and blood and bits of screaming and then it was over.

Her later imaginings were _much_ more creative.

Many were inspired by her ever increasing awareness of and appreciation for popular culture in Midgard. She had found movies on Earth to be especially inspiring for her hungry mind. She particularly enjoyed the one involving the reference to the use of a spoon, due to its dull edge hurting more. Oh, yes, and the one with the broken ankles on the poor soul tied to the crazy woman's bed.

Except, she never thought of herself as crazy. Because she wasn't. And she wasn't defensive about it either.

The only thing in her many musings that remained consistently the same was the ending. Her triumphant return back to Asgard, welcomed by all and sundry, cheering her name in her moment of victorious splendor.

Of course, it was then that the problems would start, because that thought usually ended up leaving her feeling bitter and angry and hollow. It left her asking a lot of painful questions.

Why couldn't they have trusted her?

Why couldn't they have just _listened_ to her?

And, most importantly, where the hell was Loki during those awful days of condemnation, so she could at least wrap her bare hands around his neck and s_queeze_ just once before her exile?

Okay,_ yes_, she could admit that she had been rather one dimensional during that period of her life. In her defense, it had been a period of such overwhelming anger and betrayal and suffocating, nightmarish horror.

So she had stopped imagining. She had stopped wallowing. She had started, well, living.

It had been slow going, at first. And sometimes unbearably awkward.

There were so many colors and symbols and signs to figure out, it had been almost as difficult as her Asgardian training. Red is stop and Green is go and Yellow is go extra fast, and however much people liked to make sweeping, grandiose claims about Brave New Worlds, it didn't seem quite as exciting when you couldn't figure out which public bathroom to use. The humanoid symbol with the triangle had thrown her for a loop, but she had soon learned to recognize it as hers and it was commonly enough used. In Asgard, that would have been the end of it, but humans had developed rather insidious ways to be unique and complicated, and no one had ever bothered to tell her at random food eateries she would be a "Sheila" and not a "Bloke."

The poor bloke's face had probably looked more embarrassed than her own. And speaking of learning colors, she'd had no idea that humans could come in that particular shade of red. The ever practical side of her nature had mentally ticked off that that had been two lessons learned in just one outing, which was several lessons shy of her record. Although she preferred to never really think too hard about her first and last experience with the monstrous invention of Hel that humans cheerily called the karaoke bar.

Eventually she had gained her stride, her momentum, and after the first difficult year of adjustment she had even found bits of happiness. She'd made friends here. She'd found a purpose here.

There was even stuff she _liked_ here.

She had discovered things about herself that she wouldn't have thought possible, little facets and quirks to her character, and oddly enough, she liked that too. And, as the years rolled by, she found herself thinking about Asgard less and less. She certainly got homesick, once in a while, but she was no longer consumed by the aching, searing pain of that initial shock.

She had learned to breathe again, and she had let go.

And now, here _he_ was, standing before her with his perfect hair and his perfect brow raised in a perfect quirk of condescending amusement. And, for a moment, it was like suffocating all over again.

She felt it roiling under the surface, that anger from so long ago. It gathered like a hot, seething force and collected in a knot in her belly, a lump in her throat so large it threatened to choke her.

Why the _hell_ was he here?

He had gotten what he wanted. She was gone. Out of his way. Out of his damn perfect hair.

Had he come to _gloat_?

She was _not_ going to give him the satisfaction. He had taken everything from her, but this, she sure as hell wasn't going to give him this. She forced herself to swallow her anger, plastered on a mask of calm control, and leaned back against the front of her desk, trying to look casual.

"Loki, what are you doing here?"

"Syn. You look well."

And he looked relaxed, but she instinctively knew it was false calm. Frenzied storms followed in the wake of Loki's calm, and his demeanor only served to draw her attention to the latent tension of the moment. He had spoken in a dangerously soft voice, with a wide, open smile. The smile did not seem sincere and rather reminded her of the kind of smile a man drowning in the ocean might see in his final moments.

It was all teeth. And _hungry_.

Some inner part of her, honed by years of training in Asgardian propriety and etiquette, urged her to respond with equal politeness. That part of her waged a useless war, and her recently ingrained Midgardian sensibilities won out in the end, giving her response a scathing, bitter scorn that left no doubt she was not happy to see him.

"The Lord of Lies came all this way to pay me compliments?"

His sigh was deep, and more than a little exaggerated. "I see you no longer waste time with polite trivialities. I'm not always lying, you know."

She couldn't resist a vicious snicker. "You earned that fancy title. It would be so _rude _for you to not act in a manner befitting it, don't you think?"

"You are quite right. I do so prefer a _civil_ conversation. Take care not to hurt my feelings, Syn."

Her response was laced with as much sarcasm as his. "Forgive me for mistrusting you, darling. You've just been a little…distant these past four years."

He paced to the large shelf lining one wall in her office, his attention passing over the collection of books and random decorations she had placed there only recently. He seemed contemplative for a moment, studying something he found there, and she almost wanted to fill the uncomfortable silence.

His next remark made her wish she had.

"Are you more angry at me for lying, or at yourself for believing?"

She sucked in a breath as he turned around and continued. "Or perhaps you are angry because you know, deep down, you believed the lies because you wanted to."

She stiffened. He was much too close to the truth for comfort. She made an attempt to steer the conversation someplace useful.

"You did not come here to flatter me, and you did not come here to wax philosophic on the nature of lying. _Why_, Loki? Why are you here?"

He stalked towards her in that moment, and her gaze flickered down to his hands. He had picked up something from her shelf, and her discomfort grew by bounds when she noticed which item he had chosen.

It was a beautifully carved statue of a horse, made of solid black marble.

_Tryggr._

She had bought the carving because it had reminded her of her beloved Asgardian horse. It had been a moment of weak and foolish sentimentality, she could admit that, yet the sight of the compelling image had given her comfort and pleasure.

But sentiment was weak, and exploitable, and _why_ had he chosen to favor that item of all the others lining her shelf?

His next words gave additional cause for concern. "I'm here because I think we both might benefit from an exchange of favors."

She stiffened, instantly suspicious. "There is nothing I want from you."

He moved behind her, and sat down in her chair at the desk as if he belonged there, placing the statue gently in front of him. He spoke in a deceptively silky, ominous tone. "Such sentiment, sweet Syn. It is a fitting likeness."

Weakness. She must not let him see it.

"What do you mean?"

"Do not play coy with me, we both know you are too clever for that. It is Tryggr, is it not? Look and see."

She looked, mesmerized, and all of a sudden it _was_ Tryggr. The statue seemed to come alive before her very eyes, the horse just as compelling and beautiful in miniature. He tossed his proud head, his coat glossy black and shining as if reflecting in the sun. He pranced and snorted before taking to a swift gallop, remaining in place on the table, but his tail streamed back, his muscles bunching and flexing as he stretched his gait.

She swallowed a sickening, suffocating lump of heartache that had gathered again in her throat.

Another trick, a bit of magic, meaningless fluff, she tried to tell herself.

The knowledge did not take away from what she saw, this vivid facsimile of her beloved companion, and the memories came rushing back to haunt her.

The sound of his soft whicker of greeting whenever she entered his stall, as he lowered his beautifully shaped head to nuzzle her palms with his velvety nose, his eyes so full of trust and intelligence.

The feeling of the sweet evening air rushing through her unbound hair as they flew over the hills, Tryggr running with all of his heart, attuned to her, always sensing what she wanted without her even having to guide him.

He was the most magnificent animal she had ever seen, full of courage and loyalty, and the reminder of his constant companionship was too much to bear, carrying in its wake memories of all else she had lost. Pain splintered from her heart, as if a shattered fragment from its calloused shell had broken off, leaving the old wound raw and bleeding. The sting of tears came unbidden, searing behind her eyes, but she bit them back.

She would _not_ cry for her lost horse. She would not cry for herself. Not now. Not for him.

"Stop that!" Her voice was an angry snarl as she jumped forward, and it seemed to startle him. The statue ceased its magical dance and stood still again, as she swiftly rounded the desk. Her eyes felt to his neck, and she clenched her hands, steeling herself.

She was going to do it. She did not care if it meant her death, because she was going to die with his neck in her hands.

He must have noticed her look of frantic desperation, because he disappeared from her chair the moment she was about to pounce, her momentum still carrying her forward. She heard the sound of Liz coming through the door as she landed in an ungraceful, frustrated heap of tangled limbs.

* * *

Loki was waiting.

He was good at waiting.

Not in the short term, of course. He was so easily _bored_, in that respect.

But in terms of waiting for huge, cosmic events to come together, for plans to grow and blossom and ripen, to be gathered and harvested after the slow, deceptively gentle passing of time, well, he was _very_ good at that type of waiting.

Unfortunately, waiting for Syn to finish with her work and arrive back home was not that kind of waiting.

But it did happen to be one small piece of the larger metaphorical puzzle. He had gambled on her sentimentality earlier that day, and he would reap the prize of his risk tonight. Her home had been easy enough to discover, almost as easy as it had been for him to find her office.

No challenge at all.

She had gone soft. He tried to suppress a flicker of disappointment. Some part of him had wanted more of a challenge.

An outlet.

He sighed, distracted again by the creature that had been circling him from the moment he had made himself comfortable on her couch.

It had four legs and a face and, if he were to be generous in his counting, one and a half ears. It was covered in what he might call, for lack of any better term, fur, but it was a patchwork of varying lengths crisscrossed with intersecting scars. One eye winked at him with a vivid golden color that reminded him distinctly of _her_, the other eye seemed to be the same color but it was difficult to know for certain. It was mostly covered by a drooping eyelid and scar tissue that extended down from whatever injury had taken a chunk of its ear.

He knew it was a cat, but it really was the largest and most hideous specimen he had ever laid eyes on.

The creature ceased its pacing and sat, just out of reach, staring at him with its one good eye, and for a moment Loki had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that he was being appraised and found summarily wanting. He shifted, but the thing continued to stare, unblinking, and the moment expanded.

He narrowed his eyes, hearing keys clinking outside the door, but he would be damned if he lost this contest now.

Soft footsteps padded down the hall, and an even softer sigh followed. In its wake, the distinctive sound of her shoes hitting the floor with a thud. The one eyed demon looked away, and he breathed a victorious sigh.

She glanced up, aware of him now, and her own golden eyes clashed with his, then narrowed.

He stood up, and held out a placating hand before she could speak. "Syn, I need you to listen to me, and then I promise I will go. No more tricks."

He was about to approach her but was stopped in his tracks, something weaving in a tangle around his legs.

"I see you've made yourself at home. Not surprising. Nidhogg seems to like you. That _is_ surprising." She spoke with biting, clipped tones.

His curiosity got the better of him. "Nidhogg, the Malice Striker? This is your Herald of Ragnarok, the dragon who eats the roots of the great tree?"

She nodded, and answered in a voice so deceivingly soft and solemn that he almost missed the twinkle in her eye.

"Well, I _had_ considered naming him Odin."

He snorted, felt the beginnings of a laugh get caught in his throat as he thought about how the Allfather would react to the comparison.

He had to admit, there _was_ a certain resemblance.

Before he could tell her that, he was distracted by an odd scraping, and when he looked down again he found that the beast had curled around his shoe. He tried not to wince as he saw it blissfully gnawing at the expensive Italian leather.

A strangled sound escaped from the woman across from him, and he snapped his eyes up.

_Fear._

He was shocked to see it etched across the planes of her face. And he realized with sudden awareness that it was not fear for herself, but fear for the creature, and he had to suppress a flicker of annoyed frustration.

Did she think him some sort of amateur, that he would need to resort to harming her pet?

Her pet that was now, he noticed with distaste, _rolling_ over his feet.

He leaned down with a sigh and picked up the hideous mop of fur, surprised at the feeling of softness under his palms as he straightened. He held out the animal as if it were some awkward peace offering. She moved to accept his matted gift, to his utter relief, but all of a sudden there was an odd vibration under his hands, followed by the sound of some sort of rumbling gurgle.

Was the thing choking? Dying?

He rapidly shook his head in denial. "That's not…I'm not doing that."

For one glorious, heightened second, a hint of a smile ghosted across her lips, and he felt the effect of it clear down to his toes.

And just as soon as it arrived, it was gone, making him wonder if it had ever been there at all.

She simply nodded her acknowledgement and leaned forward to take the animal from his grasp. She clutched it to her chest as soon as she had a grip, and, to his absolute horror, leaned down to place a gentle kiss on the top of its matted, half mutilated head.

She always was too sentimental. It had been leverage for him once, and she had not seemed to learn the lesson of that particular weakness.

Which was very good for him, at least.

He had played enough games for one day. She had been baited, and it was time to spring the trap.

"Would you like to go home, Syn?"


	4. Chapter 4

It was called many things.

The Cosmic Cube.

The Octachoron.

The Tesseract.

That is what it was called, but what it _was_, was power. And what it was going to be, well, it was going to be _his._

Power. Loki wanted it. Needed it. _ Burned_ for it.

But the Tesseract was just a toy of light and noise without the proper outlet for its power, nothing more than angry Thor in moments when he lost his temper. A lot of things tended to get wet, and some unfortunate things tended to get singed, or rather, _charred_. But in the great cosmic universal scheme of everything that was, is, and will be, it was nothing more than bluster.

And Loki wanted to do more than bluster. And for that, he needed _them_. He suppressed a shudder of distaste. Sharing had never been his strong suit, and sharing with The Other might be called madness. But some things necessitated madness. He had learned this lesson, and he had learned it well. He was no longer quite as opposed to the idea of madness as he had been in the past.

But in order to reach The Other, he would need to find the gateway. He would need more information from the book. It also had many names.

The Great Book.

The Window to the Worlds.

The book that contained such fascinating wisdom. For example, information about secret paths between worlds. He had gained some of its knowledge before, through some rather maddened means, and found it a heady sort of power. And, he had been interested to learn, it contained information regarding the prophesied Twilight of the Gods.

_Ragnarok. _

If Loki was the monster that parents told their children stories about, then Ragnarok was the story from which parents hid under the covers.

Not many were allowed to peer into the depths of the Great Book. Not many desired to, without the proper strength of character to withstand its power, because the Window to the Worlds was also the Window to the Self, and many could not face what they found within its dangerous, infinite depths.

But the Guardian could. S_he_ could, if she were restored. He just needed her to agree to his terms. And she was proving to be a bit more stubborn than he had anticipated.

She was proving to be a bit more of a challenge.

And Loki smiled.

* * *

If one didn't know any better, one just might think that this had been planned all along, starting those many years ago.

If one were to observe the impeccably dressed man in the expensive looking suit, one might have thought he made quite the charming picture, smiling at a lone table, enjoying a milkshake.

But if one were to look closer, one might observe that his smile never quite reached his eyes.

It never did.

It was a wicked smile, and a cold one.

One might be inclined to wonder, upon closer inspection, if the smile might be the smile of madness.

One might also be inclined to wonder just what type of a person eats a milkshake with a spoon, anyway.

* * *

Sinclair tried to focus on her breathing, her feet pounding into the pavement. She usually didn't run on Saturday mornings, but today was the exception. She had been feeling particularly restless since Asgard decided to drop Loki in her lap again.

_Would you like to go home, Syn?_

His words echoed in her head, and she pushed herself to a faster, almost grueling pace. Did he think her stupid, after all that had transpired? An offer like that must come with a price. It _always_ came with a price. Did he think she would throw away all that she had worked for just to, as the Midgardians say it, get into bed with the devil?

Uninvited, and unwanted, the vivid image of climbing into bed with Loki hammered at the boundaries of her mind, and she gasped as she almost tripped on a slab of uneven pavement, and quickly caught her balance again. She clenched her teeth at her own foolishness. These were the fantasies of the ignorant, naïve girl that she had been. But that girl existed no longer.

How _dare_ he do this to her?

Her hands twitched, as they had last night, right after he had mentioned going home and she had felt that intoxicating rush of almost maddened anger. And she had gone for his neck, again. She knew she should stop doing that. She couldn't afford to become predictable. She needed to stay on her toes wherever he was concerned.

But she couldn't have stopped herself at the time. She had been overwhelmed by her overly frequent past fantasies about squeezing the life out of him. They had eaten away a part of her she now wondered if she could ever get back.

Well, not frequent fantasies, she wasn't psychotic, but enough of them.

A few.

Just the right amount.

_Damn_ him. He was driving her mad, after only two days back in her life, and here she was trying to justify her anger to _herself_. She had dropped poor Nidhogg to the ground right before that act of utter madness, and he hadn't quite forgiven her yet.

And Loki had disappeared. But he would be back, she knew that without a shadow of a doubt. He never gave up. He was relentless. Like Nidhogg before dinner, except not quite as adorable.

"I hope that scowl does not mean you are thinking of me, sweet Syn."

Apparently she did not have very long to wait. At first she was determined to ignore him, but she couldn't resist a glance.

He was running alongside of her, keeping up with her pace, and she was surprised to see that he was wearing track pants, and a long sleeved running jacket. She rolled her eyes. It was a fairly warm day, but she had never seen him wearing anything that didn't cover almost all of his lithe form. She also couldn't help but notice that, regardless of his clothing, he looked calm and cool, and she suddenly felt like a ragged, sweaty mess in comparison.

The insufferable prince could fly through the damn Bifrost and his hair would still look perfect, she shouldn't be surprised that a mere human-paced jog couldn't muss it. She doubted the winds would even dare to try.

The track suit looked rich and expensive, as had the exquisitely tailored business suit she had seen him in yesterday, in his familiar shades of black and green. She snickered in amusement when she noticed the label on his jacket, and her initial impulse to ignore him dissipated.

"Valentino, _really_? Do they even make track suits?"

He shrugged, and before her very eyes the logo changed, morphed instantly to become the Nike symbol that graced her own shirt and running shorts. As if that little bit of magic hadn't even happened, he charged back into his initial conversation.

"Have you been thinking about my offer, Syn?" His voice lowered. "Have you been thinking about _me_? Are you not even a little bit bothered over my terms?"

She glared, and tried to keep her focus on her stride. She was weakening, her breathing becoming more labored, and she couldn't help but wonder how long he had been following her, and if he had chosen this precise moment of weakness to attack.

She huffed a response. "Yeah, I'm so bothered that I just have to be alone right now."

He ignored her biting tone, speaking in his usual soft and compelling manner. "But we could be so useful _together_. I can give you what I know you want. And I need your help in return. Are you not curious, Syn? You always were so curious."

She snorted. "Oh yes, Loki, I want to know exactly what you need from me. Feed me all of your old lies, just like old times. Except this time I can tell you to go to Hel."

"I see that curiosity is not the best lure. Perhaps there is something else I can offer you instead."

He grabbed her arm suddenly, pulling her to a stumbling halt. His fingertips burned into her skin, like a brand, and the heat of that simple touch sent a simmering fire spiraling throughout her body. But fire was painful, and this wasn't exactly painful. It was power, and she recognized it intimately._ Her_ power and vitality and everything that had been taken away, she felt herself filling with the strength of it. The flood of that familiar state of being as intoxicating as a drug, a near seduction of heady feeling that left her wavering over an abyss, about to tumble headlong from a precipice from which there could be no return.

His words barely permeated her overwhelmed senses as he leaned forward to hiss in her ear.

"You think I am lying, Syn, about what I have to offer. But do not presume that there is not truth there as well. There is a great power, one that even I cannot resist, in making a lie _become_ truth. And _this_ is truth, Guardian. Feel it._ Feel_ what I can give you."

How could she not?

It was life. And it was power. Vitality. _Hers._

_Home._

But something else was present too, roiling under the surface, and it scared her, took away the initial comfort of familiarity with a searing jolt. It was _him_. She could feel it as well, _his_ life, his power, joined with hers. And this was a different kind of heat. This _was_ seduction.

His energy expanded in waves, as if he were part of her own body, her very mind. She could almost taste him in her mouth, felt as if the very air she breathed was permeated with him, her skin thrumming with a heated pressure that left her nerve endings on fire. His energy filled her, completed her, and then seemed to find a rhythm as it stroked her from within. The heat of it pooled low in her belly and trickled down her thighs, and settled pleasurably between them.

It was intimate, exhilarating, and it was _exactly_ how she imagined it would feel to climb into bed with the devil. It created a savage need within her that was without mercy, almost brutally relentless in its ability to peel away her defenses and will to resist.

She _would_ fight it. She had to.

She gathered the flood of awareness around her, and tried to carefully separate her power from his. She gasped when she succeeded, as it only seemed to make her more vividly aware of where his energy had concentrated, in a burst of stroking pressure at the very core of her. She ignored the pleasure of it, tapped into her more familiar power, melded it to her needs as if it had never been gone, and focused all of it on one surging push against his hold on her.

She almost fell down at the force of their instant separation, her nerves screaming in pain at the feeling of cold loss and the horrifying sensation of her mortality sweeping over her again, enveloping her. She stood there, staring at him in dawning horror, gasping for breath. He looked as if he were about to speak, but she shook her head, numbly.

And then she turned around and ran. She ran so hard that soon she burned with the pain of it, likely not aided by her recent rush of vital power and the shock of its removal. She heard him behind her, urging her to stop her running, but she was past the point of caring.

For a moment, she almost thought she would pass out, and she welcomed the coming darkness, but all of a sudden she felt herself slam into some invisible, cushion-like barrier. She didn't even have the energy to struggle against the snare, she simply relaxed into it, hanging her head in defeat. As if sensing her compliance, the feeling of entrapment dissipated, and left her gasping for breath, almost doubled over from the force of it.

She looked up, and was surprised to see that his eyes did not look as cool and calculating as before. She couldn't recognize what she saw there.

"You can fight me later, Syn, but stop this running now, this…this hurting." He looked, for the barest moment, confused, and before she could even ask what this new game was, he was gone.

She stood there, heaving for air, and cursing the fates that left her feeling the need to cry twice in as many days, when she hadn't given in to that particular urge in over three years.


	5. Chapter 5

A night out.

Yes, that is _exactly_ what Sinclair Donovan needed at the moment. A night out.

Before she could change her mind, she grabbed her phone and rang Liz.

* * *

Loki almost smiled at the sight of Syn laughing with her companions, and he was content to simply watch her from across the crowded bar, for the moment.

She sat at a corner table, her coppery curls loose around her shoulders, still a beacon of color even in the darkened light of the room. She was dressed casually, at least by Earth standards, in jeans and a fitted black tank that hugged her slender form but left no doubt that she had curves where it counted.

Not that _he_ was counting.

He swiftly drew his attention from her form to her friends, and it was easy enough to count them, as there were only two. The blond he recognized as her assistant from the office, the other tawny haired man was unfamiliar, but he sat close to the blond and Loki assumed by their posture and occasional interlocked hands that they were intimate.

He also assumed that the two thought Syn was fine as she smiled and enjoyed her drink, but he could see the signs of stress etched across her face that would likely be hidden to anyone else observing her.

Anyone else but him. He had always been able to read her so easily, and he only just realized, as memory washed over him with the inexorable force of the tide, that he had never stopped to wonder why.

He could not put an exact finger on his precise age when he first met her, but it was after the time of his life when he shed the typically quick growth spurts of Asgardian youth and took up the mantle of adulthood. She had come to the palace of Asgard from the outlying region of Vanaheim, the same region that spawned the mighty Heimdall, guardian of the Bifrost.

The _former_ guardian of the Bifrost, Loki thought with a derisive snort, as he assumed it was rather difficult to guard something that no longer existed.

Syn had been gifted with a power of sight that was not uncommon among her Vanir people, who were known for their abilities to look across time and space. Heimdall himself could extend his vision into other worlds, to ascertain the location and whereabouts of whomever he chose.

It had been a damn difficult trick for Loki to twist, but he had managed, in the end.

Some of the rarest of the Vanir were even known to have the ability to see into the future. It had been a long time since this ability had manifested, but collections of their predictions from past ages still remained among the well-guarded secrets protected by Odin the All-father. Syn's sight was different, as it focused inward rather than outward, a special kind of insight that allowed her to gaze into the heart of a person to identify truth and self. Covert secrets, hidden intentions, ulterior motives, none would eventually be safe from the illuminating power of her gaze.

So she had been sent away upon reaching her own adulthood, to train with the elite warriors tasked with guarding the Asgardian realms. And Asgardian secrets.

And for someone like Loki, who had secrets of his own, and who was determined to find the secrets of Asgard, she would come to be a frustrating blend of dangerous enemy and potential ally, once she was fully in command of all of her latent abilities.

But all that had come much later. She had been nothing to him, at first, or so he liked to tell himself.

He had heard of her, like many others, as any new arrival in Asgard was a fine bit of gossip, although he had not had the opportunity to meet her until a week's time had passed.

He had entered the great hall after a long day of focusing and practicing his own latent magical abilities to find a rousing feast underway. His brother, Thor, had returned with his companions from an apparently successful expedition against a ravenous herd of Bilgesnipe that had been plaguing the northern country. It was, to Loki's estimation, a scanty excuse for carnage, and an even smaller excuse for a rousing celebration, but Asgardian warriors considered nothing too trivial to warrant a good bout of drinking and boasting.

Not that Loki hadn't joined in on his fair share of journeys meant to fulfill his brother's seemingly incessant need to fight, but of late he had felt an increasing frustration for Thor's constant courting of battles that were, quite frankly, frivolous and without greater purpose. He yearned for something more, and he was tiring quickly of being cast in the shade of his brother's so-called exploits. Especially when they were waged against lesser creatures whose only real offense was having the rather bad luck of getting in the way of the wrong end of Thor's hammer.

If Loki were to wage a war, he would prefer it be something glorious, like those of the old days when Odin headed the infinite ranks of the elite. They had fought over _worlds _back then, not grazing pastures. And people still talked about it, in hushed, reverential whispers.

And so it was with a head full of unfulfilled desires, and a lower than usual tolerance for Thor's jovial mood, that he entered the hall and returned his brother's boisterous greeting with a curt nod and a resigned sigh. As Loki expected, after a few more greetings were exchanged, the attention in the room shifted back to the main table set up at the head of the room, where Thor was occupied in an exuberant retelling of their little adventure, with Sif and his Warriors Three interrupting to add their own versions or tease each other for their oft and rather obvious exaggerations.

"And out of the smoldering blaze of carnage I expected to see emerge a victorious Sif, whose knack for war rivals that of mighty Volstagg. Perhaps not when he was in his prime, mind you, but it is not so difficult to keep up with old fellow now."

A hunk of bread was hurled across the table from the aging but still fiercely capable warrior, sailing past Thor's ear as he continued his rousing narrative.

"But when the smoke of battle cleared I did not find the maiden victorious and drained of blood lust, nay instead I found her on the ground with Fandral!"

Snickers of amusement rippled across the room, Fandral the Dashing being such a notorious rake, as Thor continued. "Not that I can blame him, finally falling for a woman such as Sif, her beauty is as spoken of as her battle prowess."

"I did not fall for her," Fandral interrupted with a huff of frustration, "I fell _on_ her. There is a difference. Those creatures can be frightfully fast. I was not expecting one to attack from behind."

Sif shook her head in disgust before adding her own teasing remark. "If you had been able to keep to your feet in fighting as well as you do in dancing, Fandral, I might well have bested Thor's count of beasts slain this day."

As they continued their teasing and endless bickering, Loki scanned for a seat apart from the rest to enjoy his evening meal in what little silence he could hope to conjure, when the sight of a woman sitting at one end of the main table captured his attention.

He had grown up in Asgard surrounded by enough beautiful creatures for him to be unaffected by the sight of a pretty face, although she would certainly fit into that category by anyone's reckoning. Rather, his attention was piqued because he seemed to be the object of _her_ attention, and that was quite a rare experience, especially when he was anywhere in the vicinity of Thor.

He felt a brief flicker of confusion, and he glanced downward, but he couldn't find anything amiss with his attire that might warrant such a curious, intent stare. Thor was still busy regaling the tables with a particularly violent rendition of another aspect of the recent battle, punctuating the occasional sentence with a resounding slap of his hand on the table. As Loki scanned the other tables set up around the large hall, he could only see the usual range of bemused fascination or more intent appreciation on the faces of those in attendance. The one thing they all held in common was that their attention was fixed on the mighty golden-haired warrior at the center of the high table, not the lean dark-haired brother still relaxing idly in the doorway, almost an outsider to their little soiree.

He braved another glance at the stranger, and found to his consternation that she was still observing him through hooded, glittering eyes. He felt as if he were being judged, sized up and measured, and it was a distinctly uncomfortable feeling. He shifted his weight forward, driven by an odd thrill of daring, and decided to join her. Her eyes widened instantly at his approach, and she shifted in her seat, giving him the distinct impression that she was fighting the urge to flee. Thoroughly bemused now, yet feeling more like a predator with each step, Loki studied her in the flickering light of dusk as he neared.

Her features were arresting, striking rather than traditionally beautiful, her skin smooth and fair except for a dusting of pink that had bloomed across her cheeks at his approach. Her long, sinfully curly hair was gathered away from her face with a simple leather fillet, and it spilled down her back in coppery waves. She was dressed rather plainly, in a chocolate brown tunic and darker pants and boots, but somehow her plebian attire only served to highlight the nobility of her features and the almost regal bearing of her posture.

As he finally neared the open seat next to the oddly compelling woman, he couldn't hide an amused smile at the fact that her own attention had wavered from whatever previous fascination she had held for a prince and had shifted to the seemingly greater fascination of the contents of her plate. The meat must be absolutely _riveting_ this meal, she was so intent on poking it repeatedly, as if searching for the best possible morsel. He heard Thor call his name, but in the moment she finally, reluctantly, raised her head again to meet his gaze, all other sounds in the room faded to the background like one of his father's boring lectures.

Her eyes were utterly captivating, large and widened in surprise so that he almost felt lost in their luminous, golden depths. They were not a light brown with flecks of amber, nor a hazel that glinted just so in certain lights, but a true and vivid gold in color, framed by a thick fringe of russet silk lashes. They glittered with a hidden fire that somehow managed to be both alluring and dangerously threatening.

He had only seen eyes like that once before, on Heimdall, and they had often been narrowed in his direction with disapproving disdain due to whatever mischief he had been caught completing in the wild days of his youth.

"You must be the Vanir." He inwardly cringed at the accusation in his tone, which he did not mean to sound quite so condemning, but she paid him no heed. Her attention had shifted to Thor, who had somehow approached his side without him knowing, a rare happenstance that left a bitter taste in his mouth, that he could be so distracted by one pair of beguiling golden eyes.

"That is what I was saying, brother, if you would have a care to attend upon my introductions. This is Syn, of Vanaheim, but she will be of Asgard henceforth. She has proven on this recent expedition to have a natural affinity for battle tactics. And she is nearly fit to instruct _me_ on good horsemanship."

He did not think it possible, but the blush on her cheeks deepened to an even rosier shade. She opened her mouth to respond, but snapped it shut again when Thor plunged forward with his introductions with all the grace of the hammer he was known to wield.

"And I would officially present my brother, Loki Odinson. He did not join us this recent trip, but when he does deign to fight he has quite the useful tricks for sneaking around, and then striking from where one would least expect."

A slight cut, followed by a stroking.

How typical of Thor these days, as if he couldn't quite decide whether he was disappointed or proud to have a sibling so different from himself, who dared to engage in battle from the side, or from behind, instead of always choosing the direct, frontal assault.

Loki smiled, certain Thor was attempting to goad him into a response, and he hated to disappoint. Focusing his attention on the woman, he brushed past his brother to reach her side, folding his lean frame in the seat directly next to her.

"If I had been present for this expedition perhaps the battle would have ended sooner. And without your enemy being the one to sneak up from behind." He kept his tone deliberately pleasant, but he saw Thor's eyes narrow.

He was surprised to find the woman's voice ripe with amusement as she interjected a response, although her eyes were blinking innocently up at Thor. "Yes, but then we would not have the delight of hearing such riveting tales, would we?"

"Indeed not," Thor responded, quirking a brow, before sauntering off to the center of the table, and the attention.

"Well played, Syn of Vanaheim."

She smiled into her drink then. He tried to ignore the feeling of his throat tightening in hunger, knowing it had nothing to do with the trencher of food set before him and everything to do with the fresh scent of her filling his nose. There was a hint of leather there too, mixed with some sweet spice that rather made him think of things dark and forbidden.

She was staring at him intently again, whatever alarm she felt at his approach having dissipated, her steadfast gaze making him the one now shifting in his chair.

"You do not enjoy these revels." From anyone else, it might have been phrased as a question, but from her it was a simple statement. Loki was a bit taken aback, not that she would notice his distaste, but that she would choose to vocalize her observation. And for the second time that evening, Loki felt uncomfortable at her intense regard of his person, as if she were seeing things, seeing _him_, in ways he had of late taken great pains to hide.

He could have ignored the comment.

He could have denied it.

But that would have been too easy. If she were going to be partaking of Asgardian fights and Asgardian revels, she might as well get used to Asgardian teasing.

"And you come to the revels smelling of horse." She did not smell of horse, but he couldn't resist a slight jab when he was feeling so exposed. He thought then that she would give him a derisive glare for his insult, and leave him without an answer, as Sif often did when he teased her. But to his surprise, she did neither.

She simply arched one bemused eyebrow and he could have sworn he heard the hint of a smile in her response. "I was riding," she spoke in simple explanation, "and now I am drinking."

At that, she tipped the contents of her mug back and grabbed the center pitcher to refill it.

"Ah. I see you meet one of the main requirements to belong to Thor's elite already."

He caught her glancing at their rather loud and boisterous table companions with a twinkle in her eye. "I will assume that you are not referring to the importance of good horsemanship."

"Indeed not. Thor would much rather have you hold your ale." He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. "Although I, on the other hand, have always appreciated the value of a woman with a supple seat."

He found, to his utter chagrin, that he rather enjoyed the sight of the blush blooming across her cheeks again as his meaning hit her.

"Well, sir, it would seem you have something in common with Tryggr. I should introduce you."

He lifted an eyebrow at her response, and she instantly clarified. "My horse. I rather like to think he enjoys my seat too. I daresay you'd get along well in his company. You know, in the _stable_."

He snorted at her implication, and begrudgingly realized that he was actually enjoying her impertinence.

"You wound me," he replied, although his tone hinted that she had only succeeded in amusing him.

"Turnabout is fair play here, is it not?" Her gaze was challenging as she continued to enjoy her drink.

"Well if I wounded one such as you, then I should apologize," he replied, without even a trace of remorse.

"You should, but you will not." Another statement, instead of a question. He met her unwavering gaze for a long moment before answering.

"Repentance has never been among my merits, as many here have come to know well." He wasn't certain why he was feeling so candid with such a complete stranger, but when he realized his easy chatter, he felt the mocking glint in his eyes harden to something more dangerous.

Fearing what else he might confess if he remained in the presence of the golden eyes for much longer, he swept up his trencher of food and stood abruptly.

"It was my pleasure to meet you, Syn, now of Asgard. Until we meet again."

He did not wait for a response, but left her side as suddenly as he had joined it, not knowing at the time that they would be meeting again quite often in the future.

* * *

Loki shook his head to clear it of the memory of their first meeting, and immersed himself in the present.

In a manner oddly similar to that evening so long ago, he made his decision to join her, and moved to her table with a determined stride and a sigh of resignation.

Despite his attempts over the years to quell his traitorous heart, it seemed as if he would always have a longing for whatever was forbidden and denied.


	6. Chapter 6

"Sinclair, you're our favorite third-wheel, but are you even _trying_ to find a date when you call us for date night?"

Sinclair laughed and brazenly shook her head in the negative at Liz' fondly teasing remark.

"You guys _are_ my date for date night."

"I don't think that's how it's supposed to work," Liz' husband responded dryly, but without malice.

As she leaned back and enjoyed her drink, she felt the stress of the last few days begin to ease.

And then she felt something else.

It was the same warmth and energy from her run in with Loki earlier that afternoon, reaching out to her, seeking her. It was as a gentle caress over her bare shoulder, mere moments before she felt a hand settle on that very spot.

She stiffened in her seat, partly from shock, partly from the rush of unwanted pleasure she felt at the heated contact of his skin against hers.

"Syn, forgive me for being tardy."

His voice was as darkly soothing as his touch and she found, to her consternation, that her mouth was hanging open in surprise. She quickly snapped it shut, cursing to herself when she realized he must have overheard the remnants of their recent conversation.

She was about to rashly respond, but Liz was too quick for her.

"Oh, it's you! We met yesterday at Sinclair's office. You had a wonderfully eclectic name. Loki, wasn't it? Like the Norse god."

"Quite the same. Of course I remember our meeting, Elizabeth, if I may."

She nodded with pleasure. "All my friends call me Liz. And this is my husband, David."

The man extended a hand across the table, and Loki obediently shook it to the sound of Liz's surprised exclamation.

"Sinclair, you rotten sneak. You did find a date!"

"He's not my date." But Loki was already settling himself in the chair to her left, and she resigned herself to not getting out easy on this one. "Well, not exactly. We are, ah, old friends."

Loki nodded his agreement, and she snorted at the sight of him lounging indolently in his chair, looking for all the world as if he belonged there. He had positioned himself much too close, his knee bumping against hers under the table. She gritted her teeth at the contact, and tried to move her chair away a more suitable distance, but it seemed to be suspiciously rooted to the floor.

She tossed him a glare, not caring if it confused her friends, but she found that he was bestowing on her a pleased, adoring smile.

She knew it was a charade, but she could still feel her heart give a funny little lurch at the sight of it.

She slung back the rest of her drink and settled the glass on the table with a scraping thud. It was her second, and usually last of the night, as she never could seem to handle her liquor on Earth as well as she could when she had been on Asgard.

Liz gave her a long, knowing stare before standing up abruptly and grabbing her husband by the arm.

"We need another round of drinks. David, it's on us this time. What will you have, Loki?"

"I'll have whatever Syn is having."

Sinclair was desperately shaking her head to her friend, but she knew it was futile. Once Liz had decided on a plan of action she could be quite stubborn. It had been an asset when seeking delicate information during difficult cases, but the trait was not helping now.

She watched them depart to the long counter bar that took up the wall on the far side of the room. Liz whispered something in David's ear that caused him to look back at them with a wide grin.

Sinclair groaned to herself at whatever they might have been thinking, before Loki's heady masculine voice returned her attention to the greater problem at hand.

"You want me gone from your life."

He had a rather surprising way of getting right to the point, when he wanted.

"I do. I _really_ do. When does that start?"

"It starts when you consider my offer, Syn. And I have so, so much to offer you."

He slanted her a glance, his smoldering look warming her skin as an all-too-familiar sparkle lit up his beautiful green eyes. He was, without even knowing, dredging up a host of memories that were all better left buried deep in the past she had worked so hard to forget.

She had always been drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, on some instinctual level, the kind of desire that did not stem from superficial attraction but from a deeper, unknowable place.

She frowned at the thought, for the first time feeling pity for the moth, and now a certain kinship, having gained understanding of just how dangerous and enticing the flame could burn. She leaned back in her chair, fighting to maintain a distance from him as the past washed over her. She could hardly believe that she had been so reckless and gullible where he was concerned.

She had left Vanaheim full of confidence and naïve optimism, certain that her future held only brightness.

She'd been raised with no reason to think or worry otherwise.

She had fallen in love with the sight of Asgard as soon as she had arrived. The central, urban city that represented the height of the Eternal Realm was so different from the quaint but beautiful countryside where she had been born and raised.

And they sure knew how to throw a party.

She would never forget her first Asgardian feast, and a lot of it had to do with _him_.

Her first thought at the sight of him was that he was different. She had initially attributed it to his looks. His sable hair had been cut short and neat, a varied distinction from the predominant longer locks seemingly preferred by most Asgardian men. Although a few errant waves at the nape of his neck hinted at rebellious curls were he to choose such a style.

He had not been wearing armor like many in the room, but a beautifully woven tunic and fitted pants that clung to his hips in a way that hinted at the wiry strength in his long legs. The fabric looked rich and luxurious, perfectly tailored and all midnight black.

He had been comfortable and at ease as he had gracefully folded his frame in the seat adjacent to hers, exactly as she would have imagined a Prince of Asgard to act in his own home, although there was something distinctly predatory about the way his gaze quickly assessed and dismissed everyone else in the room. She had felt woefully inadequate and underdressed in her own more practical attire as his hawkish gaze flicked over her own form, before he lifted his piercing green eyes to meet her own.

She had been surprised then, at what she had seen in the depths of his gaze. There had been an odd mix of sadness and longing and a type of anger that hinted of a deeply embittered state. He seemed a man out of place, a man without a purpose or sense of belonging. She could not fathom, at the time, why any Asgardian with the surname Odinson would not be entirely confident and sure of himself regarding his important role in the cosmos.

It was not his looks that made him so distinct, but something in his very being that she longed to know and understand. Her fascination, her deep and abiding curiosity, had begun in that moment.

She didn't know it at the time, but it had been the beginning of her own downfall.

It certainly hadn't helped that he became so good at hiding his inner self. Her inability to understand him had only flamed the fires of her curiosity, and later, the flickering of desire.

And now, in the low light of the bar, she had to blink at him several times to dispel her old memories. The jaded man seated much too close to her side for comfort still gave her the same feeling of dangerous awareness, but he was very different.

Time could not change his Asgardian features as much as they might have changed a mortal's, yet some mysterious combination of elements had carved a certain ruthless hardness onto the planes of his face, and she had the distinct impression that _this_ man was infinitely more dangerous, his charms ever so much more lethal, than the man who had betrayed her those many years ago.

She was instantly more wary, and she tried to throw up her guard before it was too late.

"I don't want what you have to offer," she lied, and she desperately hoped it sounded convincing. "And you should call me Sinclair. It's my name now."

"Ah, but I would prefer to call you Sin then. It has such a delightfully naughty meaning, don't you think?"

"Of course you would prefer it to the Asgardian meaning of Syn. You never did like being refused."

He smiled brightly at her again, and she squirmed. She couldn't shake the sensation that he was seeking out her most vulnerable spots before he went for the kill, but the warmth of the drinks pooling in her belly distracted her from caution.

"Tell me about Asgard," she blurted, before she could stop herself.

"What do you wish to know?"

Sinclair frowned, her pride preventing her from asking the questions that popped immediately to mind, fearing she might already know the answers.

_Does my family condemn me? Do my friends mock my name, or worse, pity what I have become?_

Two drinks were delivered to their table and their arrival shook her from her brief, morose reverie. She looked up to see Liz send her a saucy wink and a thumbs up from across the room. She clutched her drink like a lifeline, wondering if her night could possibly get any worse, and returned her attention to the conversation.

She decided the safest route would be to shrug her initial question away. "I assume it's much the same. Nothing ever changes in Asgard."

Although the dark lighting cloaked half of his face in shadow, there was no mistaking the flicker of amusement in his eyes. "It might change more than you would think. But you miss it, do you not?"

"It doesn't matter. It's not like I can go back and have things just as they were. _You_ took that from me." It was harder than she anticipated, keeping her voice disdainfully detached when she was fighting so hard to keep it from trembling.

"I would say I am sorry, and I could even make it sound sincere, but I doubt you would believe me. I cannot go back and change what has happened. But I can fix it for you. I can give you what you need to prove your innocence."

"And why would you do that? Clearing my name would likely require you to sully yours. I can't just walk back in with the relic _you_ stole from the vault I was tasked with guarding, and expect everyone to welcome me with open arms."

He smiled, almost wistfully, his voice full of bitterness. "No matter. My name does not resound with the same, ah, merits as it used to. I had a rather spectacular fall from grace. Or perhaps I should call it a plunge."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Let's just say that my mischievous nature got the better of me. Again. But this conversation should not be about me, Syn."

At her scowl of disapproval, he corrected himself. "_Sinclair._ While I understand that your anger towards me is justified, I am most surprised that my offer to fix the problem I created for you has not been received with more grace."

"Maybe because I don't need fixing." She couldn't hide the scorn in her voice as she finished off the last of her third drink, surprised to discover that it was gone so quickly. But she was glad for the solace the warmth of the alcohol provided, taking the edge off of her battered emotions.

He snorted in disbelief. "Really? Do not try and convince me that you now prefer to stay in Midgard. What could possibly make you happy among humans when you can go back to Asgard?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, and found that words were getting harder to form. "You know, you really should stop acting like you've got an ace up your sleeve. You're not winning this. I _like_ it here, believe it or not."

His glance moved toward the untouched drink that had been set before him. The rum cocktail was one of her favorites, and a bright pink umbrella graced the top with a jaunty flourish.

He plucked it from the drink with a cluck of disapproval and waved it in front of her nose. "They make small umbrellas out of _paper_ and put them in their _drinks_, Sinclair."

He looked offended at the very concept, as if such an example was reason enough for leaving.

She couldn't help herself. Maybe it was the drinks, or maybe it was the ridiculousness of her current situation, but she felt laughter brimming just under the surface.

"You have a vendetta against cocktail umbrellas now?" And she did laugh then, at the thought of such misplaced anger.

"You are missing the point." His frustration only served to keep laughter in her response.

"Am I? You haven't even tried the drink." She reached out to swipe it from his side of the table. "I'll have it then."

He grabbed it from her hands. "You have had enough. I am afraid you are getting _drunk_."

He somehow managed to sound even more offended than before, and she gave him a lopsided nod. "Either that, or I am going mad."

"You have had only three of these ridiculous pink drinks." He didn't even raise his voice from his usual cadence, but she could hear exasperation in his tone.

She shrugged then, instantly sobering at her own softly whispered explanation. "I'm mortal."

He leaned even closer at the reminder that her metabolism was no longer Asgardian in nature, and whispered an enticing promise in her ear. "You don't _have _to be."

His voice, pitched barely above a growl, seemed to resonate through her body to warm her from within. She felt a sliver of anger and fear in her heart at the realization that she might very well be as easily manipulated as she had in the past.

Her eyes narrowed as she stood from the table, desperate to distance herself from the enticement that he offered. "Keep your tricks and your lies away from me, Loki. I mean it. I'm done playing your games."

Without giving him a further glance, without even sending a good-bye to her companions, she stalked out of the bar.

The fear that her alcohol consumption might lead to her tripping and falling was the only thing keeping her from running away again.


	7. Chapter 7

In the end, Loki had not needed Syn, at least not in the manner that he had initially planned.

The Other had found him first.

He came to be in his presence rather suddenly, and quite unexpectedly. One moment he was enjoying an evening alone with his plans, and the next moment he found himself swept through the expanse of the cosmos to land on a dark and unfamiliar world.

A forbidden world.

He felt a brief moment of concerned foreboding at the sight of the bluish skinned creature that stood before him, its face partially covered by a hood and a twisted metal mask.

When it spoke, its voice was an odd gathering of sound that gave the distinct impression that several people were whispering in his head in tandem.

"We have been looking forward to meeting you in person, Loki Laufeyson."

Loki quirked a brow, glancing at the emptiness around them. "We?"

"_He_ has been watching over your progress. You have been of great interest since your exile. But now you have been plucked from your errant wandering through the worlds to be granted a greater purpose."

Loki felt it was at least polite to ask, even though he already knew the answer. "And what is it that you seek from me, in return for the generous gift of your attention?"

"The Tesseract."

"Ah. And what is it that I seek?"

"Do not play with us, little prince. You know what we have to offer. Give us the power we seek, and claim in reward the rule you seek."

The cloaked figure approached and held out his six-fingered hands, and across them was laid a golden sceptre.

"A gift. A promise. Take it, seal the bargain that will be of great reward to you, should you choose to honor it."

"And if I do not choose to honor it?"

The Other hissed in annoyed frustration. "Your games of mischief suit you ill. They are the playthings of the boy who was exiled. You are ready to lead, and our force will follow. Take the scepter, and gain understanding. Knowledge."

Loki held out his own hands with measured care, knowing he was going to be one step closer now to the power he had sought for so long.

The sceptre was handed over, the bargain sealed.

As soon as he grasped it, he felt its power thrumming through his limbs with an enticing warmth that promised him everything he ever wanted.

It spoke to him of things forbidden.

Desires as yet unmet.

It whispered through his very being of all that could be his, if only he would answer its siren's call.

But there was a darker fire hidden in the depths of the heady warmth of its promise. This fire was one that chilled instead of offering heat, and he felt it pricking the back of his conscious with a dripping venom. The trap might have gone completely unnoticed by any lesser creature who was not already an expert in the arts of deceit and manipulation.

But Loki understood the value of backdoors.

The Other was not being completely up front with him, as he expected, and the dark lord, the one they called the mad Titan, was already laying a claim on his mind.

He might get Midgard in reward for his forbidden pact, as they promised.

He might have his sights on gaining the might of Asgard as well.

But neither rule would be of much use to him if the universe was in the hands of he who courted death as mistress and held more power than Loki was able to battle on his own.

And he didn't have much time left to counter the effects of their insidious, poisonous control.

He needed to get to the Window before his will was no longer his own.

His time was running short.

Time, that elusive commodity that mocked him with its transience.

It was ridiculous, that he could have so much of it, but never enough when he really needed it.

* * *

Sinclair thought she had made herself perfectly clear.

She had informed him that she was absolutely not interested in whatever plots he was cooking up, in no uncertain terms.

She had, in part, been lying about her lack of desire to return to Asgard.

She also knew how relentless he could be.

So she had expected him to return, and even though his sudden arrival in her bedroom gave her a shock, she supposed that she really shouldn't have been surprised.

It was late in the evening, almost a week after her last encounter with him, and she was already prepared for bed, wearing nothing but a barely there camisole and a pair of loose white cotton pajama bottoms.

And suddenly, he was there. He was not dressed in Earth attire, as she had seen him previously, but he was in full Asgard regalia.

She might have felt intimidated, but she was too distracted by the wild, almost desperate look in his eyes as he spoke to her. "There is no time to explain."

He began to move toward her, with slow but determined strides, as if here were worried she might flee. Sinclair knew that she would be a fool to assume his caution meant she was safe. His desperation only made him that much more dangerous.

It was then that she noticed the rather large and imposing sceptre he carried in his hand.

In retrospect, Sinclair was always a little unsure about the next few minutes. She was stuck in one of those odd moments of timelessness, where she perceived things to happen much more slowly than reality allowed.

Those were the moments that changed a person's life.

And for her, she thought it was finally the moment she was going to die.

She couldn't quite place the look in his eyes that kept her focus from the sceptre as he finally stood directly in front of her, but a small prick of pain quickly and efficiently diverted her attention downwards. The sharp tip was now nestled against the very center of her heart, and through the thin silky fabric of her camisole a small bloom of red was slowly spreading outwards from the point of contact.

An almost numbing pressure seeped through her limbs towards her core, and she tried to suppress a panicked bubble of laughter as the thought crossed her mind that he really was going to be the death of her.

After all those years of thinking it was just a metaphor to help her conceptualize the danger that he represented, he really was going to kill her.

Quite literally.

Although she still couldn't figure out _how_ he was going to do it. The wound on her chest was a small trifle, certainly not enough to do her in, but it was the look on his face that gave her the greatest cause for concern and left no doubt that she was in dire trouble.

She was finally able to place its great significance, as her wide-eyed gaze swept up to clash with his and his final words washed over her.

"I cannot find another way. If I could, I...I am sorry, Syn. If your mind ever does return to you, know this. _Remember_ this. I _am_ sorry._"_

A shimmering blue light was beginning to take over the edge of her vision, making it impossible for her to respond. Her focus was on his face, however, and the sight of an emotion deep in his eyes that she had never seen before.

Had thought that she would never see.

Because she had not thought it was possible for him to feel such a thing.

_Remorse._

It was the only time he had ever apologized to her, and it seemed as if he actually meant his words. His regret was etched clearly on the planes of his face, and for a moment she felt it tugging on the tangled, broken strings of her heart.

He was betraying her again, and she was feeling _sorry_ for him while he did it.

The realization struck her suddenly, and filled her with seething, bitter anger, but there seemed to be nothing she could do about it now.

_Nothing she could do._

It was her last coherent thought before the clinging darkness of the blue light claimed her completely.


	8. Chapter 8

Loki's steps were soundless as he hurried through the familiar lower halls of Asgard with the brisk strides of a man who knew exactly where he was going, and how to get there. Syn's heeled shoes provided a marked contrast to his own silent movement, echoing in the halls with each resounding step. She had grabbed them from the floor at the end of her bed, right before he had used the sceptre to augment his own powers and initiate their rather unconventional travel arrangement through the secret paths he had spent countless hours of his youth deciphering in quiet corners.

Quiet had always been his preference, and the noticeable lack of it caused him to stop abruptly. He clenched his fingers around the staff of the sceptre in a useless attempt to waylay his frustration, and whipped around to give the offending shoes an ominous glare, as if he could simply stare them into submission.

His now oh-so-willing partner seemed to understand his unspoken command and immediately bent over to remove them, meeting his gaze again as she straightened. Her eyes, some sort of clouded glacial blue in color, which made him uncomfortable in ways he refused to acknowledge, were filled with a look that was eerily fathomless yet bespoke of complete obedience.

He could be persuaded to admit, but only in the dark of night, that he might have dreamed of a moment such as this. A moment when the Mistress of Refusal could refuse him nothing. When this women, who had compelled him because she was forbidden, as he liked to tell himself, would be _his_, completely and utterly under his spell.

There were no denials on such a day.

Or night, as his fantasies usually went.

Yet this was not precisely what he had had in mind. He had the distinct impression, as he continued to gaze into the depths of her foggy blue irises, that she did not quite belong to him in that moment, but to some other, inexorable force that he could not control.

A force that he feared would be able to circumvent his own formidable will soon enough.

That thought was a heady, dangerous reminder, and one that he wasn't about to ignore. He wanted to rule Midgard, and was willing to sacrifice just about anything for such power. But Midgard was not the only power he craved, and his recent arrangement with these newfound allies threatened more desires than they promised to fulfill.

He did not have much time to hatch a scheme clever enough to overcome the powerful forces that were arraying against the universe. It would be a dangerous game, to play _them_ the ultimate fools, even if it was to his own advantage.

And it was to his advantage. He wasn't sentimental enough to care about the universe or its inhabitants, he reassured himself. But Asgard he did care about. He would be damned if he let anyone else destroy it or rule it.

For he wanted Asgard to be _his_ also.

Dragging his gaze from the quiet women standing before him, precisely three inches shorter than she had been a few moments ago, he turned on his heel and continued down the hall. Blessed, blissful silence followed in his wake, but he did not doubt her now barefoot presence behind him.

He had planned his route with meticulous care, and arrived at the lower vault without further interruption, exactly as he had anticipated. Yet no amount of planning could sneak him around the two warriors tasked with guarding the door itself, and so he quickly dispatched them with a grunt of satisfaction, amazed at how much power pulsed through his hands with the sceptre in his possession.

If anyone who had even an inkling of Loki's penchant for powerful relics had caught a glimpse of him striding into the vault like he owned it, that person would have been quite amazed to witness the former prince's apparent lack of interest for the priceless artifacts arrayed around him. Loki had always been able to focus his desires to pinpoint precision when necessary, and at that moment there was only one relic that riveted his attention. He moved quickly up a flight of stairs leading to a balcony which ran around the upper perimeter of the vault, heading towards an elaborately carved pedestal in the far corner, upon which sat the bindings of a great book.

It was not a book in any traditional sense. There were no words for one to read, or pictures to gaze upon. It did not even contain actual pages to rifle through, once one opened the beautifully engraved bindings that protected the interior from prying eyes. There only existed the visions of prophecy, the mind-boggling, twisting strands of the fated past, present and future.

There was no telling what one might find inside. Most who dared peer into the depths would see nothing at all. Some might be unlucky enough to witness dark, convoluted visions containing the potential to drive one mad with crazed imaginings and false dreams as tenuous and comforting as shattered glass.

The prophecies in the so-called Window to the Worlds came from the Vanir.

And only a Vanir could know them truly.

He turned to the woman at his side and nudged her towards the pedestal. "Look inside, Syn of Vanaheim. Tell me what you see."

She moved forward at his command, but only shook her head in confusion after opening the bindings and gazing inside. "There is nothing."

He grabbed her upper arm, surprised at how easy the old magic was to use when combined with his new power. For a brief moment he thought he saw a flicker of gold return to her irises as he briefly restored her own latent abilities to her. His hand tightened on the sceptre in alarm at the sight of the glittering shards of color, but the blue fog soon filled them up again, reassuring him of her allegiance.

"Look again." He spoke, more sharply than he intended, driven by a combination of impatience and intense curiosity at the potential knowledge that could be revealed to him. He flicked a worried glance towards the door, but the familiar weight of the amulet nestled warmly against his chest, tucked under the folds of his garment, provided a comforting reminder that his presence would go undetected.

His vast powers were not without limits, however, and he could not prevent the light of his little Vanir from shining in the gatekeeper's mind as brightly as a beacon, not when she was gazing into the Window. Loki began to estimate who and how many Heimdall might send to intercept her, calculating how much time remained for them here, as he awaited her response.

When she looked up to meet his searching gaze, her face was bathed in an odd light, the source of which was hidden from him but he assumed came from the book. "The Twilight approaches."

He found it almost amusing that such a terrifying revelation regarding the end of the known cosmos could be uttered from her in such a calm, almost melodious tone. He supposed it must be the effects of the sceptre that prevented the more emotionally invested reaction he would expect from anyone else who became aware of such news. And by emotionally invested he meant hysterical. Yet this was not a pronouncement that surprised him. Everyone knew Ragnarok would come, someday, but most preferred to think of it as the far off and distant kind of someday that should be the concern of someone else.

No one was interested in actively thinking about it, much less actively doing something about it, he scoffed to himself. No one _else_, that is to say.

"Yes. I am aware the end times are coming." His hand clenched around her arm in an unconscious gesture of frustration. "I need to know if and how it can be prevented. Find me what I need. Concentrate, Syn."

She diligently bent her head to continue her perusal, and he belatedly realized how tightly he was holding her when his eyes passed over the white knuckles of his hand. He loosened his grip, newly distracted by the sight of a slow trickle of blood that was trailing down from her nose and hovering over the upper curve of her lip.

He knew that looking into the Window was dangerous for those who tried to glean its knowledge before the proper time, even those of the Vanir, but he had not fully considered all the ramifications of such a threat. Although his sceptered Syn seemed to be impervious to whatever effects the moment might be causing, he couldn't stop himself from flinching when he realized that it was the second time he had made her bleed this day.

He reached forward to gently wipe away the blood before it dripped down into the book, her brow furrowed in concentration at whatever she was seeing and paying him no mind, but a loud commotion in the hall caused him to jerk back in alarm.

Loki was not surprised at the sight that greeted him as the doors to the vault were flung open. Heimdall appeared in the doorway with a menacing glare, which changed to a flicker of angry shock at the sight of him.

Time.

There was none left for him, in Asgard.

He re-tightened his grip on Syn's arm and hissed in her ear for her to hurry. She pulled her attention from the book and met his gaze with a satisfied nod.

She had found something.

"Tell me."

She was speaking in a low voice, for his ears only, and his shock at the knowledge she imparted was the only excuse he could give for the unforgivable lapse in his usually impeccable response time. Heimdall had already reached their side, and the powerful warrior flung both of them away from the pedestal before Loki had time to react. More footsteps echoed in the hall, along with the familiar, menacing sound of his brother's thunderous voice. Giving one last, almost sympathetic look at Syn, who was crumpled motionless on the floor and out of his immediate reach, Loki activated the sceptre's powers to augment his own, just moments before his brother turned the corner to enter the vault.

* * *

Sinclair gasped for breath and tried to stay conscious. Her memory was hazy, at best, the odd numbness still present at the back of her mind.

She was fighting it, but the task was difficult when she was also fighting to breathe. She was uncertain where she was, or how she got there. The only fact currently registering was that she was pressed up against a wall, Thor's nose inches from her own, his hand a fierce vise around her neck.

She knew the pressure of his fingers would leave bruises, but as his angry voice washed over her, she highly doubted that should be her primary concern.

"What have you done now, Syn? Answer me! Are you not pleased enough with your previous defilement of Asgard?"

She tried to gather enough air in her lungs to answer, but it was an impossible task against his strength and menacing temper. She was being accused of something, but of what she couldn't be certain, and she felt a flicker of terror as the old nightmare of her past returned with a condemning vengeance.

"Her tongue might be looser if your fingers were as well." Heimdall's dry interjection was not given out of sympathy, but necessity, so she did not bother to express her gratitude as Thor stepped back and she felt herself sliding to the floor.

She found she did not even have enough strength to stand on her own, and collapsed to all fours at his feet. She did not know what had happened to cause the rampant pain throughout her entire body, and quickly dismissed the thought that Thor had beaten her already. He was not one to harm without reason, and he would have needed her conscious to impart any useful information.

She swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat, yet the effort only caused a searing agony to travel down her neck and jar her upper chest. She again tried desperately to remember, but she could only grasp flickers of memory through the haze of recent imagery cluttering her brain. Her focus shifted as she became more aware of the danger of her current predicament, and trickles of fear caused an unbidden litany to echo uselessly in her head.

_I have the right to remain silent. Whatever I say may be used against me in a court of law. I have the right to an attorney._

The familiar refrain provided no comfort, and she almost snorted to herself as another reminder of Earth justice mocked her with its falsity.

_I am innocent, until proven guilty. _

It might have been reassuring for her human sensibilities, but with recent events so unclear, she wasn't certain of anything anymore. Not that it would matter, such an ideal would never hold up in Asgard. And she was definitely back on Asgard, that was apparent enough, in her current position. Floors with such delicate veins of shimmering metal didn't exist anywhere on Earth, or at least not anywhere she had frequented.

She stared at the barely visible patterns in the floor a moment longer, distracted at the sight of swelling drops of blood slowly increasing in number, adding their own bloom of crimson to the subtle coloring.

Were they from her?

No, she told herself, there was something more important to ask.

"Where is Loki?" Her voice came out in a shuttered, gaspy wheeze. She did not have time to breathe in again before she was hauled roughly to her feet and pushed against the wall.

"Loki is dead. What games are you playing, witch?" She was surprised to see pain lingering with the anger in Thor's gaze.

She glared at him, utterly confused why he should think his brother dead, but the agony he was feeling was obviously not faked. And Thor had no talent for trickery.

He shook her at her lack of response, violently, renewing the dulled pain. "Speak, and none of your old lies!"

"She speaks truth, Thor. He was here. I saw him."

The fingers around her neck loosened enough for her to breathe in a fresh lungful of air at Heimdall's second interjection. She was slightly more grateful for this one, but Thor's face was a mask of confusion and anguish.

"He lives? What are you two plotting? Where is the Veil you stole? Is that how you infiltrated Asgard?"

His rapid staccato of questions reminded her of the accusations from long ago, and she found herself repeating the old denials as if the past four years of punishment hadn't happened. As if she hadn't learned the jarring lesson that none would believe her protests anyway. "I don't have that stupid amulet. I never did!"

"Enough. You could not prove your innocence then, what makes you think you can prove it now?"

"Did you ever think that maybe you should have to prove my guilt?"

Her muttered response almost made her laugh at her own naivety. She knew this was a useless conversation.

"What?"

"Earth justice dictates that the burden of proof should lie with the prosecutors. Accused are considered innocent until proven guilty."

His words were ground out between clenched teeth, each one delivered with damning emphasis. "We are not on Earth."

She closed her eyes and swallowed again, ready to give up the futile fight, but Heimdall's third interjection gave her a small flicker of hope.

"Loki must have been using the power of the Veil. I could not sense him even though he was before my very eyes just now. It would also explain how he was able to ferret the Jotun into Asgard, and travel to Jotunheim unseen by my gaze. I had not considered such a power to be in Loki's possession at the time, so many years having passed since the relic disappeared."

He turned towards her with his thoughtful gaze, and continued. "Though I am unsure of Syn's role in his plots."

She couldn't resist a painful snort of derision at his choice of "disappeared" when she had spent four years in exile for supposedly stealing the priceless artifact for her own nefarious purposes, whatever those might be. Yet something else Heimdall had said triggered her curiosity, an apparent greater force than the resentment she felt roiling under the surface.

"Jotun?"

Thor's eyes narrowed as he continued to search her face, but he seemed to be less angry than before, though still full of suspicion. He loosened his painful grip but continued to support her weight as he spoke.

"It seems there is much we need to discuss."

* * *

Sinclair tried to remind herself that she actually was conscious and not, in fact, dreaming this ridiculous conversation up in the maddened state of her now fragile, battered mind.

Coffee beans.

She was talking with Thor, lord of Thunder, heir to the throne of Asgard, prince of the Eternal realm, about coffee beans.

Only the recent minutes were clear to her in the still hazy fog of her memory.

She had been hustled to the high hall. She had sat in a proffered chair at their command, more out of sheer exhaustion than obedience. She had been clothed in nothing but the remnants of her pajamas and what could only be described as the most severe case of goosebumps known to man.

She remembered letting out a silent but still painful hiccup of laughter at the sight of them.

Embarrassment had been so low on her priorities it hadn't even made the list.

Waiting for Odin to join them. The All-father.

In her pajamas.

Her bloody, _torn_ pajamas.

Her brain hadn't been up to the challenge of worrying about the upcoming encounter, and she had been desperately trying to ignore the aching soreness thrumming through her entire body, so she had distracted herself by staring at her bare feet to decide which choice was less obtrusive. The black three inch heels she had worn to work earlier that day, which a confused guard had collected from wherever they had been discarded, or the bright fire-engine red of her toe-nails peeking out from the now ragged hem of her thin cotton pants.

In the end, she had been distracted from having to choose by Thor's seemingly endless mercurial mood as he paced in front of her.

"Have you tried the drink they call coffee?" He had continued his chatter at her hesitant nod. "I enjoy it. I have tried sorcery to recreate the drink, but it is never quite right." He'd sounded frustrated, and eminently disappointed.

It really had surprised her, how absolutely floored he had been to talk to someone about Midgard. It had shocked her even further to find out _how_ he had come to know so much about her newfound home, the details of which he had sketched to her on their walk to the high hall.

"Good coffee comes from good beans, Thor. You can't replicate that with magic."

He whipped around to face her then, and his response pulled her from her brief replay of events to focus on the present.

"Coffee comes from _beans_? How fascinating. This I must look into further."

His face was so incredulous, she started to laugh, but the soreness clenched her throat and sent her into another paroxysm of coughing. He walked over to her and hunkered down on one knee beside her, passing her a mug of water.

He was silent for a long moment before he spoke again. It took all her effort not to look away from the scrutinizing gaze of the powerful Asgardian squatting before her and looking at her with a kind of sympathy that she would not have thought possible in the arrogant, proud prince she once knew.

"Innocent until proven guilty, you say?"

All she could give him was a weak nod, as she found to her dismay that a lump caught in her throat prevented any other type of response.

He seemed to take pity on her anguish, standing up again and moving to her left.

"What else do you like on Midgard?"

She took a long sip of water and swallowed, waiting until the burning in her throat and eyes subsided before giving her answer in a soft voice. "I like cats. They are, ah, a kind of pet."

"And why do you like them?"

She wasn't sure if he was actively trying to distract her, as such a level of understanding and awareness of others was alien to her previous experiences with Thor, but she took solace in the mundane conversation anyway as she pondered her answer aloud.

"They are difficult to know, but if you take the time to learn their habits it is quite rewarding. They never compromise, but I suppose it's fitting as they were once worshiped as gods in some cultures." She smiled to herself as she continued, thinking of Nidhogg. "And they have an inherent tendency to get into nothing but mischief…"

She trailed off in her description when she realized the image that her words evoked, casting a guilty look to her side.

"And you are fond of such mischievous creatures with their illusions of grandeur?" His look was much too knowing for her comfort.

"Yes. Cats." She felt it was useless to clarify so precisely, but she was nothing if not determined. "I am fond of cats."

His brow furrowed then, but his focus was somewhere else now. She couldn't stop another cough of surprise at his rapid change of topic. He seemed consumed with thoughts of his brother and his recent actions that had been briefly summarized for her. Not that she was surprised at his desire to speak of Loki, considering Thor had mourned him as dead until recent moments.

"There was much Odin kept from us. Perhaps he should not have shielded us from the truth for so long. Loki changed, when he learned his true Jotun heritage. Or maybe I am arrogant to think I knew him at all."

She couldn't stop herself from feeling a brief moment of sympathy as her own understanding dawned. All of the confusing things she had seen in the young prince began to make sense in ways they never had before. "I can't imagine what it would be like to discover such a thing," she murmured, almost to herself, as Thor continued.

"He may not wish to embrace his Asgardian heritage either, but it seems he wishes to take Midgard for his own."

"That I _can_ imagine."

Thor turned to her again at her dry response, and his expression had changed from contemplative to decisive. "We must find him, and stop whatever it is he is plotting. Odin is gathering enough dark energy to send me to Midgard. _You_ must help us when the time comes, if you are still loyal to Asgard."

Her eyes widened in surprise, and it was difficult to keep the bitterness from her response. "I can't. I don't even know what he's plotting, I swear it. I was _alone_ on Earth for four years. He appeared just a week ago, from out of nowhere. And I wasn't very interested in having a lengthy conversation with the _reason I was exiled_."

She was about to curse out several choice Earth phrases to describe _exactly_ how she felt at being faced with Loki again, but the sight of Odin and Heimdall entering the hall distracted her, and instead she muttered aloud her sudden feeling of foreboding.

"Shit, here we go again. My life only needs this."

Thor seemed to find a flicker of amusement in her torment. "You talk like them."

She narrowed her eyes at the fickleness of his moods, not able to find anything amusing regarding her current situation. "I _am_ them."

He instantly sobered. "Yes. I am sorry."

His eyes were sincere, and the sight of his regret triggered in her mind another pair of eyes, green in her newly discovered memory instead of the blue now across from her. She stiffened, and she couldn't keep the scorn from her voice.

"I grow weary of apologies. I would hear no more of them."

"We might have done you a great disservice, Syn. You may be hearing many apologies, if that is determined to be so. You should prepare yourself."

She sighed, realizing that her return to Asgard might not be brief, and she was suddenly filled with one urgent concern. "Well if you are truly sorry, then I have a favor to ask for your upcoming trip to Midgard."

"Ask, and if you can help us, consider it done."


	9. Chapter 9

_Later_

* * *

"I think I'll have that drink now, if it's all the same to you."

Loki tried to inject as much bravado as he could manage in his half-joking attempt at surrender, but he was still consumed by the pain of his battered body. He had thought himself an expert in bottled-in emotion, but even he had not anticipated the power of the human monster's pent-up rage.

The ever chattering metal man was the first to respond.

"I hate to say it, but I'm with Dazed and Confused over there. Can I get anyone else a drink?" The man's cavalier tone was betrayed by the broken limp in his usually swaggering gait, as he moved to retrieve two glasses from the bar.

No one else expressed interest in his offer, but the red-haired woman was the next to comment.

"Fury will want him."

She was still holding the sceptre in both hands, her delicate fingers idly tapping against it. She looked almost as if she had forgotten what she held, and she certainly did not seem interested in using its powers for her own advantage. Loki couldn't resist a snort at her ignorance, but he immediately regretted it when the pain shot down his neck.

Thor glared in his direction, but spoke to the woman. "Fury cannot have him. Loki will come with me to face Asgardian justice. I will also be taking the Tesseract. It will be safer with us."

Loki was distracted from the argument over his impending fate at the sound of twisting, scraping metal and the feel of a heavy body collapsing at his side. He turned to the metal man, who had taken up a seat next to him on the stairs, and found a drink hovering under his nose.

"Go on, it's the good stuff."

"I am quite certain nothing will mask the taste of your gloating." He spoke with a sneer, but his heart wasn't feeling up to the task of completely denying the soreness now in his throat, so he reached to accept the proffered drink with measured care.

"I didn't come to gloat. Okay, maybe a little gloating. Did you have a good chat with Banner? I heard you two had a little spat over your godhood. I never really figured him for a religious man. I did warn you."

Loki's gaze shifted to the human who was the cause of his current agony. The doctor looked much less threatening in his human form, clothed in nothing but a slip of tattered fabric and a jaded, world-weary expression that reminded Loki more of himself than he cared to admit. He knew exactly what it was like to know you were a monster inside, always hovering on the outside of belonging. Yet there was one important difference between them.

Loki was no longer interested in pretending to be anything else.

Besides, they were not the only monsters in the universe, and the pain in his body was a stark reminder of The Other's promise should he fail to deliver the Tesseract.

_He will make you long for something as sweet as pain._

Not quite ready to deal with the menace that such a failure could portend for his future, he brought himself back from his reverie to the current conversation.

"Threaten. You were 'threatening' me, to be precise." He was not sure why he felt the need to argue over semantics, but he had never been any type of a loser if not a sore one.

"Ah yes. So I was. Hey, who's your money on?"

Loki did not deign to answer his flighty change of topic, instead taking solace in the drink. The man continued his rapid staccato of conversation in what Loki had discovered was a rather annoying Midgardian trait of attempting to fill up any moment of silence as if it was a bad thing.

"I might bet on Agent Romanoff. That woman is relentless. I thought I wanted one, but I changed my mind. Can't seem to get rid of her now."

The metal man sounded eminently disappointed at this fact. Loki's attention shifted back to the agent in question, who was still arguing with his brother regarding which realm would get the pleasure of punishing him. The shield warrior, the Captain, seemed to be siding with Thor, making it clear that he wanted the cube as far away from Earth as possible.

The other agent called Barton, the one who had been under the spell of the sceptre, stood at the woman's elbow, the protectiveness of his stance leaving no doubt whose side he favored. The two agents shared an inherent trust, despite the man's brief stint with the enemy, and Loki was struck suddenly by the uncomfortable realization that no sceptre in the universe could give him that same level of faithful, unending conviction.

_Sentiment. _

Loki scoffed at the wayward direction of his thoughts. As if he desired such an emotional attachment. It was a weakness, and he would not let it consume him as it consumed his brother.

"I am fairly certain my brother invented stubborn. Thor will not compromise. He will be taking me to Asgard."

No longer his home, it would become his cage. He briefly considered sharing his secret knowledge regarding the dangerous events that were already unfolding in the great expanse of the cosmos, but decided against it. His trump card could wait until it was absolutely necessary to reveal, as the argument about his future seemed to be winding down to a rather quick resolution.

"Well look at that, you were right. Guess I can't have all the wins today."

Loki could only give the metal man one last baleful glare over the rim of his glass, as his brother approached them. Seated as he was on the stairs, he was disgruntled to find himself cast yet again in Thor's imposing shadow.

* * *

Loki was going to Asgard, and it was not looking to be a warm reunion. So it was with great resignation that he grabbed the other end of the container cradling the Tesseract, and a few moments later he found himself in a familiar place.

The lower dungeons.

He'd been banished there on rare occasions in his unruly youth, although he had always found ways to sneak out before his allotted and rather boring time of punishment had ended. He highly doubted escape would be so easy as in the old days, when chains and guards and revoking of powers were not considered necessary for a prince of Asgard.

He was proven right upon being escorted to a room that he had never seen before, and looked to be recently constructed and reinforced. It was empty, except for a metal pillar, almost waist high, standing in the very center of the room. He was led to it and bound, facing away from the door. Thor checked the bindings twice, refusing to meet his gaze but muttering something about keeping a promise, before quickly departing.

Loki didn't bother testing his restraints. He could recognize uru, the rare Asgardian metal that could only be forged in stars and was usually used to create powerful weapons such as Mjolnir. Its magic could be manipulated by those wielding it, but Loki felt the power of the Allfather shimmering throughout the pillar and chains, and knew it was not going to be easily undone in his current state.

Time. It was an element of the cosmos that Loki both loathed and respected. He loathed it when it worked against him, but he respected it for its incredible capability for deception. A few seconds under the right circumstances could oppress like an unbearable age. And long, plodding moments of it could fly by as if winged forward by the swiftest of winds.

And so Loki could not provide an accurate measure of how long he stood in the room. It could have been mere moments. It could have been days. It did not concern him. It was no displeasure to be alone with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. He refused to let it bother him that those he used to call parents did not come even to reproach him, nor did it do him any good to fret over the punishment he knew would come instead.

When the door behind him finally re-opened and he heard the sound of someone entering, he stood dispassionately still, ready to face what was in store. But when he felt an odd thump at his feet, his mind immediately shifted to the possibilities of torture.

He'd always been particularly sensitive to heat. Perhaps they planned to start at the bottom, and roast his feet with the fiery flames of Kolr, which was native to Asgard and burned hotter than any substance known on Midgard. Or perhaps they would shoe him with a Kettil cauldron and fill it with molten metal. Neither option bothered him in the least, and he rolled his eyes at their lack of gumption and creativity.

He couldn't resist a curious peek downwards to see if he was right, and only then did he feel a flicker of foreboding at the sight of what lay on the ground. His narrowed green eyes met the gaze of a creature so appallingly hideous and perplexingly familiar, he couldn't stop the brief thrill of dread that shivered up his spine when he recognized its crooked golden eyes and matted fur.

His head snapped back up at the sound of a disapproving snort to meet another set of piercing golden eyes, and Thor's voice barely registered as his words echoed from somewhere behind him.

"I believe you've already met this Guardian, though I should inform you that she answers to Syn of Midgard now. She insists, for the time being. I do not think she has forgiven us yet."

Loki could not provide his brother with an answer due to the muzzle still binding his lips, but as he continued to gaze into the glittering, furious depths of her narrowed eyes, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that forgiveness was the last thing on her mind.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This was originally the end, before I began a second (and final) part to the story. The next chapter is a preview of Part 2.

Thanks for reading! :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:**

Hey All! This update is primarily for those who followed and favorited _Farewell, Remorse_ back when I first published it (and who don't have me on author alert). If you were with me then, you might remember that I decided to take a break (for a variety of reasons) and start again with a Part 2 at a later date.

Well that later date has now arrived. However I have chosen to start a new story, not simply continue this one from here, because the tone and presentation are very different, and also because the second part can technically stand on its own (I actually think of it as more of a spiritual succesor than a part 2 anyway). The story is called _A Game of Souls_. Below you will find Chapter 1, if you're curious to try it out.

Just FYI, I will not be posting the remaining chapters from _A Game of Souls_ here, just this one, as a sort of 'Hey guys I'm back' kind of thing.

Hope that's okay!

Story Prompt: Ragnarok approaches. Prophecy reveals that Loki will be its harbinger. Or the world's salvation. Thanos the Mad has Loki's soul, Syn the Betrayed has Loki's magic. So begins a journey of self-discovery, and self-recovery, featuring romance, adventure, a reluctant hero, Nidhogg -a cat, Tryggr -a horse, Tony Stark -a camera hog, nine realms, six Avengers and a heroine twice-betrayed.

Disclaimer: Nothing from Marvel or _Thor_ or _Avengers_ is mine.

* * *

**_Prologue. The Dwarf King's Forge, Nidavellir._**

* * *

Another star would die tonight.

Stars died all of the time, millions of them collapsing and expanding their great lives throughout the infinite expanse of the cosmos. It wasn't something that Kindra, daughter of Eitri, princess of Nidavellir, normally concerned herself with.

But this star was different.

Father was going to kill it.

Kindra sat hunched over her workbench, and tried not to think about the heat of a star at its twilight moment. Her nimble fingers worked the shimmering uru into delicate links on a chain so thin and ethereal, it would be difficult for anyone to tell that it was made of such a powerful, strong substance.

The magical metal was rare, and she must not make a mistake. She must concentrate. She must not think about what her father was doing right now. She must not think about how his dark eyes had warmed and shimmered when he had given his last orders.

_Kindra, my daughter, you know what must be done. Finish the necklace, so that it is ready upon the completion of my own task._

He had cupped her cheek with his hand, before he had turned to go, and she had felt the thick, calloused scars that covered his palm and extended in burning lines up his forearms to tease around his elbow.

One couldn't forge in a star and not expect to be forged in return.

She cursed the Allfather under her breath, for sending him out on such dangerous orders, but not too loudly, since one never knew if Heimdall might be listening. And then she cursed Mjolnir, and this time she cursed louder, for although it was a beautiful, perfect weapon, it had given her father's talent notoriety and attention.

One couldn't make a weapon like that and not expect to have a repeat customer.

Except it wasn't a weapon that Odin wanted this time.

* * *

**_Present day. Stark Tower, Midgard._**

* * *

Natasha bristled and tapped her foot with impatience as the elevator ascended Stark tower. She'd only had one month. One month to spend with Barton. It wasn't even enough to _start_ making up for all the time they had lost. And now here they were, contacted by Tony on behalf of Thor to come discuss some new potential threat in the universe.

And it was all because of _him_. Again. New York _still_ hadn't recovered from the last time he had visited their little corner of the universe. People went to France with their cameras and travel guides and took a liking to having croissants for breakfast. Loki came to Earth with his bull horns and his voodoo staff and had taken a liking to having, well, _everything_. Loki was to tourism what Stalin had been to a little manifesto on class struggle in the old country.

She had liked knowing he was back in Asgard. She was calmer knowing he was someone else's problem. And she liked it when she was calm. Barton liked it when she was calm. Her enemies most definitely did _not_ like it when she was calm, and this was a technique she had quite perfected, because despite what people may say, pain is not pain. Pain coming from a woman who speaks to you in a soft voice like your mother reading bedtime stories, and smiles gently with the promise that the next story will be the _Nutcracker,_ is infinitely worse than pain.

And yet _he_ had deemed her nothing more than a balm. How _dare_ he? She could certainly use such a ruse to her advantage, but it made her decidedly angry that the insufferable Asgardian had assumed that that was all she was capable of. She scoffed at the thought. She could make a man beg for a balm. She could give a man a balm that would make his skin boil and fill him with so much suffocating agony he would beg for the pain _before_ the balm.

Just because it wasn't soothing didn't mean it wasn't a balm. And she had shown _exactly_ what she could really do, in the end. They all had.

That final thought soothed her like a ba…like something really soothing. As she entered Stark's conference room, calm and collected, she was faced with him again, sitting at one end of the table and flanked by two other Asgardians. Thor she recognized, the other woman, she did not.

Loki lounged between them, almost indolently, as if bored. As if inter-planetary meetings regarding the future of the cosmos were something he tried to fit in every Friday afternoon, right between genocide and his lunch break. He was wearing shackles on his wrists, but not the muzzle she had seen him in last. He was positioned closer to Thor than to the unfamiliar Asgardian woman, and leaning slightly away from her. It could be nothing, one never knew.

But Natasha always noticed the little things. Little things could be very useful. A little pressure here, a little squeeze there, and a man could tell you all his secrets. Or, scream them, anyway. Little things could be big things, in the right context. She filed the tidbit of information away for later comparison and analysis. Stark had arrived. Early this time.

That was odd.

* * *

Tony entered his conference room to a resounding silence, and that needed to be rectified immediately. He took in the three Asgardians at one end of the table, Natasha at the other end. She seemed to be engaged in some sort of macabre staring contest with their former adversary, so he took a moment to give Thor a passing nod, since they had shared a greeting earlier, before studying the third Asgardian in the room.

He was surprised to see that she was looking at him with a beatific smile on her face. It was a smile he was accustomed to seeing on the big-breasted bombshells that tended to wait for him outside of the bars he used to frequent. Definitely not as sleazy, but it was still like she recognized him somehow. His gaze flickered down to her golden breastplate. It glinted with a polished rich sheen of some metal his fingers twitched to study. And, more importantly, it curved in such a way that more than hinted at all sorts of wonders hidden beneath.

Like a subpoena. She could definitely tuck a subpoena in there.

"Hey, Little Miss Sunshine, you got pockets in that thing? Where do you keep your lipgloss?" She was clearly wearing some.

Three pairs of Asgardian eyes were now looking at him. The blue were confused, the green…unfathomable.

The woman's eyes were gold, which was weird and oddly compelling, and they looked decidedly amused. "You don't want to know."

"No, I really do." He plopped quickly into the seat next to her and rested his chin on his palm.

It was an effective trick. Men invariably got annoyed but women usually loved it.

Golden-eyes lifted a gauntlet clad wrist. "It's tucked up my sleeve. You think Stark Industries could make me a purse to go with this get-up?"

He had to actually confirm for them he _was_ Tony Stark before they could issue the subpoena though, right? He should have paid better attention last time but there had kinda been more important things going on in his life. Like that Audi R8 Spyder convertible.

Except there was no _way_ DC could be this creative. Plus they had become decidedly less interested in trying to get their grubby government hands on his suits once he became affiliated with SHIELD. Not to mention he'd received the message that Thor and company would be arriving at his tower with an important dilemma to discuss through Jarvis, and he was confident their methods of communication were secure.

He pulled his head back from his palm and snapped his fingers. "That is exactly what Stark Industries has been missing. High danger accessories. For the woman on the go save the universe. Hey Romanoff, you interested? Or are you just gonna stick with the whole bullets for bracelets look? No? Okay."

He wasn't usually one to let something as paltry as a total freezing reception stand in his way, but that woman was a tough nut to crack, and right now her attention was focused sharply on their old enemy turned prisoner.

He swiveled back around to the striking woman in the long, golden drapery cloak, and tried to shake the image of everyone on Asgard ogling window treatments.

"Have we met?"

"No, but I've read about you, Mr. Stark. It's such a pleasure to meet you in person."

"Please, call me Tony. We're all friends here, right?" He made a point of smiling at Loki when he said it, because he could never resist an opportunity to needle someone, before he shifted his gaze to Golden-eyes again. "Are they starting fanclubs for me in Asgard now?"

"I'm sure they will be. But as for myself, I've…spent some time on Earth."

He glanced at Thor, currently standing while observing their exchange with crossed arms, and remembered a conversation they had once shared. For Thor, "time spent on Earth" had meant a family feud that almost took a planet out in its wake. He had to hand it to them. The Asgard version of the _Lion King_ plot was pretty wicked.

He wondered what it meant for Golden-eyes. And her _face, _damn it, where had he seen it before? He kept up the pretense of conversation as his fingers flickered madly over the phone he had pulled from his pocket and rested on his thigh.

"Global warming, rampant poverty, the arms race, and now we can add Asgardian infestation to the mix. How many more of you are hanging around? Cause I always thought there was something weird going on with Gerard Butler."

There was a laugh from the other end of the table. Natasha had perked up. "You're just mad because that overly busty Australian tennis star said he was sexier than you."

Of all the moments for her to take an interest.

"She isn't too busty. She can't be. She plays tennis. It's a balance thing. There really is no accounting for taste, is there?" He pursed his lips at her before returning his attention to Golden-eyes. "Seriously, sunshine, is he one of yours? I must know."

Her smile finally wavered as she turned suddenly towards Loki, seated to her left, her long red-gold curls bouncing over her shoulder with the sharp movement. "I'm not quite certain. Loki, are there others, outside of Thor and I, that you've gotten exiled due to your little games?"

One quickly lifted brow provided a brief hint that Loki was surprised to be addressed during their little exchange, before the mask of droll amusement swept down to veil his pale features. "Well as far as actual intentions go, it would not be too far off the mark to say that I saved the gift of exile just for you." The words practically oozed from his lips with practiced charm, in a way any other man might have said "You have the last piece of chocolate, darling," or "I'm happy doing whatever you decide, dear."

Thor clenched his fist and shifted his feet to a more threatening pose, but Tony was too distracted by Golden-eyes to worry about any impending violence between overly entitled Asgardian princes. She had sent Loki a look that didn't stop at glaring daggers, but threw in a few rapiers, a broadsword, and an over-sized claymore. Tony found himself barely resisting the urge to duck when she turned to face him again.

A blink on the screen in his lap signaled success, and he let out a little "Hunh" at what he saw. A few seconds later he had commandeered all available screens in the room and transferred the newspaper images. Her striking face was now, quite literally, lighting up the room.

"I _knew_ I'd seen that face before. Sinclair Donovan. You're that bigwig lawyer. And, incidentally, bigwig _is_ the nicest term I have to precede the word lawyer, no offense. You were all over the papers when you went missing."

"I was found." There were enough layers of meaning in those three simple words to make an onion peel itself and weep for shame. The _layers_ had layers. She didn't seem to be interested in filling in the blanks either, and she had definitely lost her amused demeanor.

Tony was not a man easily fascinated by people. He liked fast machines and even faster computers and people were usually only entertaining to him if he could find little ways to annoy them. Fast. He hated onions almost as much as he hated being handed things. He hoped to god no one ever tried to hand him an onion. But there was a dynamic here that needed figuring out. He hated it when he didn't have all the variables. He stored what little he knew of the equation away to be solved later. Barton had entered the room, Rogers close on his heels, and he was fairly certain he saw fun go scampering out in terror.

That was just too bad.

* * *

Loki was playing a very dangerous game. The stakes were nigh impossible to fathom, even for him, and most of the cards were either missing or blank. But at least he was the one holding them.

The only relevant item of importance that he was _not_ holding was his power. As his old adversaries filed in and found seats around the table, greeting each other in the process, he risked a glance to the woman seated at his right. _She_ controlled his magic now.

He couldn't count how many times he had tricked her or betrayed her in the great expanse of their past. And now his fate rested in her hands.

Or so they all thought.

But fate was a tricky one, the only bitch in the universe who could play a meaner game of chance than he. And fate was on his side now.

All things considered, events had gone quite to his liking after Thor had returned him home.

Thor's home anyway, it was now a prison to him.

Except Asgardians tended to take the same approach to due process as Midgard took to high fashion. Sometimes it was in style and popular, and other times it was just optional.

They had found it exceedingly difficult to punish someone who was prophesied to potentially harness the means to stop Ragnarok.

That had been a fun card to play. He really wished he could have been there to see Odin's face when the prophecy had been revealed.

Ah yes. Fate had her hand on his back.

And she was pushing.

It was time to lay down another card.

Except he was distracted by Barton's question. "Where's Banner?"

Loki forced himself not to move as Stark responded. "He'll be here later this evening. He was…a bit further away than the rest of you. Well, except for them."

Stark gestured to their end of the table, before adding, "Oh, and that's Sinclair Donovan. She's a lawyer. Or was. She's also from Asgard. Or was. I'm a little short on all of the exact details."

Thor took this as his cue to begin. "My friends, this is Syn, born of Vanaheim, but now a guardian of Asgard. Loki has no power here, as long as she is present. And yes, as Tony has so cleverly discovered, she spent some time on Midgard, a lengthier span of time than my own experience. But these details are not essential to discuss at the moment."

Loki almost laughed at Thor's poor choice of words, like she had spent a vacation here, not a term of exile for a crime someone else had committed. And by someone else he did mean himself. He risked another glance in her direction, but found to his consternation that her expression was still unreadable.

"So what is this new threat to our worlds you wanted to discuss? It had better be a big one," Stark interjected, "I was enjoying my vacay."

"You weren't the only one," Natasha muttered under her breath.

Loki leaned back in his chair with a smile at the sound of Thor's beleaguered sigh. "The Chitauri were not Loki's only ally in the battle we recently fought together. Another enemy has been revealed, one who has amassed great power and commands even would-be kings. He covets death and seeks the destruction of the Eternal Realms, an event known as Ragnarok, to my people. The end times. And we have been given signs that the time is approaching."

Would-be kings. Thor had glared at him when he said it.

"Shouldn't that be Asgard's problem?" Leave it to the Captain to point out what he thought was the obvious.

Loki sneered at him, and spoke as if explaining to a child. Which pretty much summed up his general attitude when interacting with Midgardians. "I almost envy you your ignorance of the endless depths of the cosmos, and the interconnectedness of each and every layer within the infinite expanse. It must be so much simpler living in the small little worlds you all build for yourselves. Round and round in your little heads you go. Ragnarok as we know it will not simply be the end of Asgard. It will be the end of _everything_. All life, all worlds, will be threatened, if Thanos is allowed to continue in his plans."

"And that is something you care about?"

Loki sent him a cold stare. The Captain was a man overruled by sentiment, in his estimation. But a lack of sentiment did not equate to a desire for a cataclysmic event on a cosmic scale. "Your feelings are as foolishly naïve as your simple little existence. And just as breakable. Why would I wish my world destroyed? Or yours? I cannot very well rule what does not exist."

"It doesn't look like you're ruling much of anything, from where I'm sitting."

It surprised him that Stark was the one to interrupt their jabs and attempt to get the room back on track. "The annihilation of worlds is a pretty tall order. Who has the power to do that? And how? Does he have a Death Star?"

Loki could have sworn he heard a snort of stifled laughter from the woman to his right, and he found himself almost starting to like Stark. He could watch him and Thor talk and be endlessly entertained, seeing the simple expressions flicker across his so-called brother's broad, earnest face. The furrowed brow of confusion. The puckered lips of consternation. The slight tick in the lower jaw that signaled his inner fight to be patient and calm.

Ah, it seemed as if he won the round again. Thor's voice didn't even betray his inner turmoil when he spoke, at least not to anyone else. "He is called Thanos. It is said he was born millennia ago, misshapen and unseemly to his people, a race of beings that no longer dwell in this universe. And so as an outcast he grew and sought power and strength, and when he found enough of what he sought, he slaughtered his family and the remnants of his world. Stories are told of him as lessons to my people, although not all of us learn the lesson. He is almost as a myth would be in your realm, as he has not been seen or heard of since his rampage of vengeance so long ago."

Loki felt himself clenching his own jaw now, the crescents of his fingernails digging into his palm. The comment about not learning lessons was a jab for him. As if one could really learn anything substantial from a story. As if Thor in his self-righteous glory could imagine what it was like to feel misshapen and unseemly and outcast.

And he _had_ learned a lesson. Just because it wasn't the one they were selling didn't mean he hadn't learned. He just hadn't needed a story to drive it home.

Stark seemed to find Thor's tale amusing. "And now he's back. Did he find out about some long-lost cousins, and wants to finish the job? Because I've had plenty of 'long-lost cousins.' They can be trying. With all their lawyers and talks of wills and attempting to prove their unsubstantiated claims. Snoozefest. And they never visit on Thanksgiving."

Thor paused and took a breath. Loki wondered how long his newfound patience would last. "Thanos does not seek dominion so much as destruction, and perhaps he has been biding his time. He now has in his possession certain powerful artifacts so rare that I have only seen but one in the span of my life. They would have been difficult to acquire. They are called infinity shards, small colored gems in appearance, but like the Tesseract, they are repositories of great power, as they can bestow omnipotence over various aspects of cosmic existence."

Loki glanced around at the various levels of confusion and concentration on their faces. He thought a practical example might give them some clarification. He might as well throw Thor a bone or they'd be stuck in this stuffy room all day. "You have had contact with one of the six shards, admittedly some of you had more intimate contact than others, but you all can surely understand the concept. The mind shard."

Barton sat up sharply in his seat. "The sceptre."

Thor nodded. "Yes. It was powered by the mind shard. I do not need to explain what this stone can accomplish. I doubt Thanos was pleased to lose access to such an energy source."

Loki snorted. Thanos was not the only one.

"Wait, there's more of those power balls scattered throughout the universe?" Stark was leaning forward in his seat, eyes gleaming. He rather reminded Loki of the canine creatures so popular as pets on Midgard. He was near to drooling at the power potential under discussion.

Thor answered. "Thanos already has two others. The soul shard is one. We are not even fully sure the extent of its ability. It can mirror the mind shard, in some respects, that much is certain, but it is infinitely more dangerous for those under its thrall. How long it has been in his possession, and how he acquired it, we do not yet know. But the space shard he gained through association with Loki. It can bestow the ability to move easily throughout the realms, and between them, if one can master it. Loki has not been forthcoming as to how he himself acquired this shard."

Another glare. He was amassing quite a collection. He couldn't remember the last time Thor had looked at him without one.

Barton mused aloud. "So, he can manipulate souls. And minds. Or he could. And movement through space. How does this translate into, uh, Ragnarok?"

Barton stumbled over the unfamiliar word, looking for all the worlds like he had a mouthful of Alfheim taffy. Loki laughed quietly to himself, or so he thought, until he felt Syn's sharp elbow jab his side.

He assumed he was collecting glares from both sides now, but when he looked over to send one back in return, he was surprised to see her lips twitching.

Thor seemed abashed not to have a good answer. "We do not know. But he also seeks the Tesseract. It has powers that even we have not unlocked yet. Perhaps it will augment the shards he already possesses, or be used to combine them in some way. There is great power within the shards, but there are only hushed whispers to guess at how much power, and what sort of power, can be unleashed when they are combined together. Whosever holds all six could have absolute dominion over the entire universe, able to alter time, reality, any aspect of existence as we know it."

The Captain spoke again. "And how are we supposed to stop this being from bringing about this Ragnarok? Are we just gonna find the remaining cosmic gems that no one has ever seen? And why do we need this war criminal with us?"

Loki knew they all must be wondering that very thing, and he spoke carefully. "According to prophecy, we may have a chance at averting Ragnarok if we re-acquire what Thanos has taken from me."

"Your little travel trinket?"

"That would certainly help us. But no, I was actually referring to something far more precious, even to me."

"What does Thanos have that is more important to you than a means to power and magic?"

Loki sent the Captain a pointed look, before giving his answer in a whisper soft voice to a round of surprised faces. He couldn't blame them. It was the first thing he had said that day with complete sincerity.

"My soul."


End file.
